


Visiting Hours

by tensofthousandsoftinyships (evilolive)



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing, it doesn't get much better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 50,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilolive/pseuds/tensofthousandsoftinyships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jude and Connor are now officially boyfriends – things should be simple, right? Not exactly. The pressures of the shooting, coming out and finding time to be together threaten to overwhelm them, and they must learn how to support each other. Meanwhile, Adam is torn between wanting to connect with his son and fighting old demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For this story, I drew inspiration from Douglas Coupland; I've borrowed a couple of minor elements from his novels _Microserfs_ and _Girlfriend in a Coma_. 
> 
> Huge thanks to the one and only [iridescentglow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow/works?fandom_id=919104) for always responding to my cries for help with cheerleading support and practical help. 
> 
> Thanks also to the readers and commenters who kept me going during the writing of this fic. It means a lot.

“I want to see him. I want to see my friend and I’m not leaving until I do.”

 _This little punk_ , was what Adam remembered thinking, long after Jude and Lena had gone, as he walked to his car at the end of another long stint at the hospital mulling over the day’s events.

Adam Stevens had never been what anyone would call a fan of Jude Adams Foster. The new kid his son had seen fit to befriend and bring home for dinner and sleepovers was altogether too quiet and secretive for easy liking. _Sly_ was the word Adam had taken to attaching to his mental picture of the boy. Over the preceding three days, since the shooting, he’d revised his perspective on events and come to the conclusion that the kid was an outright liar. Adam had felt himself justified in his decision to keep the two boys apart. Jude was nothing but a bad influence who led Connor astray. 

Ex-athlete and current division lead salesman for a commercial real estate company, Adam Stevens prided himself on being a straight shooter in all the important areas of life from the boardroom to the sports field to his family. WYSIWIG: it was the first acronym he’d encountered on joining the company. He’d stumbled into the job—ransacked with the grief of his broken baseball dreams—two months after graduating from college with an indifferent business degree. _What You See Is What You Get_. The phrase had stuck with him and somehow over the years it had become part of his psychological furniture. There were worse rules to live by, he comforted himself, when the girl he’d thought he’d love forever slipped out of focus after the birth of their beautiful baby boy and Adam’s stubborn grip on his marriage lost elasticity and grew slack. 

What Adam saw when Jude sat at his supper table, eyes downcast and barely able to swallow his pizza, nonplussed and irritated him. What he saw when he watched Connor and Jude playing video games together mystified him. They didn’t rag on each other like normal boys their age. In point of fact they hardly talked at all. They communicated via a complicated code of prods and eyebrow lifts and high fives and only the two of them had the key. Nothing untoward but it troubled him. Every exaggerated gesture and whoop Connor and Jude shared drove home to Adam that he was outside the circle. After he banned the sleepovers, Adam and Connor still went to the batting cages but it wasn’t the same. Connor, blazing with resentment, didn’t want to be there with his old man, so much was obvious. His hitting never recovered its form. It was tempting for Adam to date the deterioration from the afternoon he’d seen Jude place his hand on his son’s back for just a few seconds too long.  

No, Adam Stevens was no fan of this kid who everyone else seemed to trust without question. In all fairness to Adam, the history spoke volumes. As far as he knew, Jude had been instrumental in Connor sneaking out at night on more than one occasion. Adam hadn’t forgotten about that party. _Just hangin’ with my girls._ He’d known it was bullshit at the time. Unfortunately grown-ass men can’t call bullshit on thirteen-year-olds, however duplicitous. The next best thing had been keeping his son out of range of the kid’s influence. It was a strategy that worked better than he could have imagined, at least for a time. Adam blamed himself for letting Jude sneak back under his radar. He’d wanted to believe in the tale of the girls in the tent on the camping trip, so he had. His satisfaction when Connor had arrived home from school with a request to go to the movies “as a group” had been unmistakable. High as a kite with relief, he’d made the mistake of relinquishing control, of assuming Jude’s ascendance had waned with the introduction of Daria onto the scene. 

Earlier, Adam had loitered in the parents’ room during Jude’s visit and poured himself his fifth, or maybe sixth, cup of coffee of the morning. Exhausted from days without decent food and nights without proper sleep, still reeling from the shock of nearly losing Connor, he finally started to spell out the reasons for the sense of defeat that engulfed him. His usual strategy when faced with something he didn’t want to deal with was disbelief: for now the conversation with Lena had forced him kicking and screaming out of denial. _Are you going to keep all the boys outside the door?_ Adam Stevens’ son coming out as gay overturned his entire world. It wasn’t too surprising that he reacted with misdirected anger and lashing out aggressively. Not a stupid man, Adam was beginning to grasp that exercising control over Connor’s interactions with Jude was nothing more than striking at the nearest, softest target. Busy avoiding the knowledge that the problem didn’t lie in Connor’s preferences or his choices, but in his own tumultuous feelings and inability to process them, the illogicality of his earlier train of thought, clarified by Lena, struck him anew. What had he been thinking? That if not for Jude, Connor would have stayed his innocent, golden-headed boy indefinitely or grown up into a different young man, one who liked girls instead of pretending to like them? Witnessing Jude's and Connor’s quiet delight at his change of heart accomplished more than Lena’s good sense. Adam was starting to realise that he needed to confront his distaste and fear of what lay outside the narrow sphere of things he was comfortable with. He didn’t want to be the kind of man from whom his son felt the need to hide who he was. 

Visiting hours were over for the day. Connor had been falling asleep when he left. Over the past few days, since the shooting, Adam had fallen into the habit of staying by his son’s bedside until dinner was served and with it the evening round of pain meds. The TV in Connor’s private room ensured there was no need for conversation. Adam slumped behind the wheel of his car in the long-stay hospital parking complex, preparing to drive home to his empty house. He pressed his knuckles against his squeezed-shut, prickling eyes and then stared blankly at the back of his hands. They were wet. It reminded him of the way Jude’s body had heaved with sobs while Lena’s arms cradled him. Adam asked himself how it could be that this urchin, this throwaway had a mother’s care when his own loved and wanted child went without. It seemed unfair, like there was some kind of disturbance in the balance of the universe. Adam decided that visiting hours could go and screw themselves. 

The ward nurse guarding the station was flirtatious. “Hey, Mr Stevens, didn’t you just leave ten minutes ago?” Adam turned on his coaxing-yet-firm voice and prepared to sell. 

“Hi, Susan, nice to see you again. OK if I grab another five minutes with my son? It’s important.” 

“I’m pretty sure Connor’s asleep and, ya know, he needs his rest. He’s on a hectic healing schedule!” The nurse’s laugh tinkled like glassware, setting Adam’s teeth on edge. “Say, why not come back first thing? I know it’s hard to be separated from them, honey, but it’s a safe bet he’ll be happier to see you in the morning if you let him sleep now.” 

Adam held on to his temper with difficulty and managed to prevent himself from snapping that he was a paying customer who knew what his son needed better than a kid a couple years out of nursing school. He nodded brusquely and stepped around the station, calling his thanks over his shoulder. “Ha ha, yeah, no doubt! Won’t be a minute.” He walked down the dim corridor. There was light coming from under the door to Connor’s room and he could hear that damn TV blaring. So much for being asleep, Adam thought, pushing open the door. 

Connor wasn’t looking at the television. He was plugged in, face blue from the reflection coming off the screen in front of him. Clearly making the most of his reinstated phone privileges, Connor was smiling away to himself as his thumbs flickered over the keypad, oblivious to his dad’s return. Not wanting to startle him, Adam waved from the doorway. Connor looked up, flinched, a shadow of guilt crossing his face. It tore at Adam and he crossed the room quickly, smiling as encouragingly as he knew how. Connor yanked at his trailing ear buds. “Hi! Uh, sorry. I was just…” He tossed the phone onto the side table furthest from Adam.  

“It’s OK, son,” he said. The right words to say next didn’t come to him. When he’d resolved to come back upstairs and kiss his son goodnight, he’d thought it would be easier. 

“Did you forget something?” Connor sounded young, a little scared, as though the bear he used to fear lived under his bed had suddenly materialised in his hospital room. The words could wait, Adam decided. 

“Yeah, I did.” He sat down on the edge of Connor’s bed, careful not to jog the injured foot, and held out his arms. “Bring it in, son.” With heart-breaking hesitation, Connor moved in for the hug. God, Adam thought, when did he get so damn big? Connor had been a tiny newborn, three weeks premature, emergency C-section. They’d yanked him out of his mother—screaming, covered in blood—like precious treasure. How had Adam allowed himself to miss so much of this? He squeezed, not letting go. 

“Wha—what’s all this? Dad?”

“Nothing, son. Just…” Adam struggled for words. As ever, the wrong, shitty words came out of his mouth. “I’m trying, OK?”  Connor tensed in his arms and shoved, breaking the hug. 

“Yeah,” he said heavily. Connor sounded thirteen again, weary. Adam loved Connor so much it could kill him: his beautiful son who lately seemed to carry the weight of the world on his broadening shoulders. He could have wept for adding to that burden with his clumsy ignorance. “OK, Dad. Whatever. You know, I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just go to sleep now. Good night.” Connor turned his face to the window, dismissal written in every line of his body. 

Adam stood over his son’s bed, waiting in hope of a reprieve. Connor had always been a forgiving, kindly little boy, ready to laugh again and run to his mother for a cuddle after being pushed away. This time, no forgiveness was forthcoming. Before leaving, he tried again. “I love you, son.” Connor was asleep, or feigning sleep.  

Twenty minutes after his first attempt at heading home, Adam was behind the wheel of his SUV again. This time he sat upright, drumming a tattoo on the steering wheel with his fingers. He grabbed his phone from the well between the two front seats and jabbed out the unlock code, scrolling through his contacts until he found the one he wanted. 

Voicemail. He paused, trying to find the right, non-shitty words. He choked out what he’d called to say. “Adam Stevens here. I need your help. Please. Call me when you get this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stef, as was usual, went first using the bathroom and was ready several minutes ahead of Lena who was having some trouble deciding on the ideal necklace to go with her dressed-for-more-than-family-dinner outfit. As though it mattered, really: a bra-less Lena clad in her rattiest t-shirt and yoga pants ensemble was nothing short of an exquisite goddess. 

Stealing reverent glances at the line of Lena’s neck, Stef drifted around their bedroom picking up hair clips and rearranging the books on the nightstand as Lena finally settled on the sweet little amethyst pendant on a thin gold chain handed down from her grandmother on her dad’s WASP-y side of the family. Stef had met the battle-axe only once before she snuffed her candle in bed two months short of her ninety-fifth birthday. It wasn’t a particularly valuable necklace, but the brilliant centre stone sparkled pinkish red and blue in certain lights, catching fire against Lena’s breastbone with an effect that Stef found quite mesmerising. A salacious rumour circulated at family gatherings that Leona Adams—the original mean girl by all accounts—had swiped the trinket from a bosom friend at boarding school back in 1918. The persistence of the gossip gave the lie to Leona’s bland denials whenever the tale was broadcast. The old dame had shuffled off unloved in life and unmourned in death and now nobody cared to remember an unsavoury little piece of Adams family history. Stef was the exception. For her, the anecdote represented something intriguing and ultimately unknowable about the upper classes. When asked how she felt about the pendant’s origins, Lena displayed the pristine moral clarity she was known for. “Now it’s come to me, honey, it’s not stolen property any more. That’s how it works.” 

Ten years into their relationship, Stef had not yet managed to acquire her wife’s talent for ontological certainty. Oftentimes Stef struggled to orient herself in relation to the disorderly territory of police work and family life. Where Lena glissaded with the support of her axe of justice, Stef wobbled and blundered down her line of ascent. 

This evening, however, Stef radiated calm whilst Lena was unusually on edge, fiddling unproductively with the ancient clasp and repeatedly catching stray hairs. “Ouch! Damn it.” 

“Let me get that for you.” Stef fastened the necklace, taking the opportunity to dip her head close to Lena’s neck and inhale. Lena came to rest, leaning into the reassuring circle of Stef’s love and allowing the whirl of her anxious thoughts to subside for a second. “Don’t fret, love.” Stef wrapped her arms around Lena and pulled her in. “Dinner will be fine and if not, well, it’ll all be over in a few hours.”

“What possessed me to invite Adam and Connor for family dinner? I can’t even remember now. I must still have been in shock when I listened to his voicemail. As for what possessed _you_ to extend the invitation to _Mike_ of all people. I can’t imagine anything more awkward. I’m worried for Jude. What if we make everything worse?”

“Jude will be fine. You invited them because Adam asked for our help. You said it yourself, reaching out was a big step for him. Now that Connor and Jude are dating, we’ve talked about how important it is to make Connor feel welcome in this house and that includes his family. This is our chance to make our boundaries clear to Adam and show him that we run a tight ship. We don’t know where he is emotionally but we do know he loves Connor and he almost lost him. He might surprise us.” The tight muscle in Lena’s neck relaxed fractionally and Stef plunged ahead. The coming evening was a minefield, to be sure, but she would put her best foot forward while treading as carefully as she knew how. “I asked Mike because he’s lonely and missing Brandon and I thought it would be nice. My cunning plan is that he’ll be so grateful for a home-cooked meal he might actually rouse himself to be helpful. You know, he’s pretty skilled at defusing male aggression.”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed. Mike can be pretty aggressive himself.” Lena allowed that she was occasionally harsh in her estimation of Mike. However, she considered that her recent experience of him justified this assessment. 

“Come now, love, that’s not fair. Everyone’s emotions run a little high from time to time. Don’t you think he may have a contribution to make, what with…” Stef faltered, not at all sure how to put into words her gut sense that Adam and Mike might share more than their status as white, middle-aged, straight dudes. This was where she could use Lena’s unerring internal compass. She shrugged, thinking that if all else failed, the two men would likely find some common ground talking sports and beer. “You know, the Brandon and Danni situation,” she finished. The words sounded even lamer out loud than in Stef’s head.  

“It’s hardly the same thing.”

“I’m not saying it’s the same. I’m saying he’s a father and he might be able to put himself in Adam’s shoes a little easier than we can. Who knows, they might hit it off.”

“Honey, are you _matchmaking_?” Lena making jokes was a reliable sign that her anxiety about hosting a socially diverse/potentially combustible group of dinner guests was dissipating. Stef squeezed her waist before heading for the door en route to check on the pot roast. As she left the room, she called back over her shoulder.

“Hey, this dinner was _not_ my idea and I’m here for Jude’s sake. What will be will be.”

 

***

 

As Stef begins to descend the stairs she overhears an exchange between two of her kids, sadly the only two who will be available tonight to sample her delectable pot roast. Jesus’ presence is ruled out by reason of being in traction. For patients like Jesus, hospitals are girl magnets, it turns out. His room has, over the preceding ten days, transformed itself from an antiseptic jail cell into something resembling the aftermath of an explosion of baked goods, cards and flowers. Buxom candy-stripers from the hospital and a parade of girls from Anchor Beach dance constant attendance at his bedside. When his family arrive at visiting hours, it is to find Jesus basking in the glow of a text from his latest fangirl. As for Brandon, he left for Idyllwild two days ago but Stef isn’t thinking about him right now. His departure has created an empty space in the house and in her body and she is still feeling out its shape, like a new bruise that doesn’t hurt too much as long as she doesn’t touch it. Her third absent child, Callie, is with the Quinns tonight, a previous engagement she is reluctant to break for Sophia’s sake. Jude says he’s fine with it. 

“Hey Judicorn!” Mariana’s dulcet foghorn booms in Stef’s ears as she passes the girls’ room. “I’m about to do my nails. Am I doing yours? That blue you have on is hella chipped.” 

Jude emerges from his bedroom and Stef pauses on her way down the stairs. His face is scrunched, almost scowling, as he scratches energetically at the last traces of chipped polish on his pinky nail. “I’m good,” he calls in Mariana’s general direction. 

“Sure? Last chance before I start on mine.” Stef notes the faintest of eye-rolls but Jude answers with even-tempered courtesy. 

“One hundred per cent. Thanks though.” Jude stays on the landing, chest out and ribs poking up to the ceiling. Stef knows the signs. He wants to say something, can’t decide if it’s prudent or not and has forgotten to breathe while he weighs the decision. His arms are by his sides now that he’s accomplished his mission of transferring all of the polish from his nails to the carpet. His thin wrists (the water reeds in the pond out back are hardly thinner) poke out of the sleeves of his red and blue striped hoodie. Jude is growing like a weed and they’ll need to take him shopping again before the summer is out, buy him a whole new bunch of stuff for the start of school in September. Stef brings the ringing silence to an end. 

“What is it, love?” Jude lets out a gusty sigh. 

“Nothing. Just…” Jude’s scowling again, glaring at the landing carpet as though it personally offends him. Stef lifts her nose. In the time they’ve been talking the fragrant smell of pot roast has drifted from the kitchen through the dining room and up the stairs. Did she remember to set a timer? Probably not.  

“It’s OK, love. Take your time.” Jude breathes through his nose: once, twice. 

 “Do I have to come tonight?” Stef takes this at face value. 

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“No. I’m just…not hungry.” Jude is hungry, having eaten only a sandwich and an orange for lunch, now several hours in the past.

“OK. Hmm, well, it’s family dinner, love.” Stef thinks about how Jude’s anxiety has manifested on past occasions. “It’ll be very informal and if you don’t feel well during the meal you can ask to be excused straight away.”

“I’m fine. Just not hungry.” Stef tries a different tack. 

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, love, but it’s almost dinner time and dinner time is when we eat. No discussion.” Jude’s shoulders drop slightly and Stef hopes that’s the end of it. She shakes herself, remembering what she said a minute ago to Lena. The whole point of this shebang is to show up for Jude—and Connor. The cooking can wait. She presses her luck in the hope of shaking Jude’s reticence. “Besides, Connor’s going to be here. Won’t he be surprised if you don’t show?” 

What Stef doesn’t know, and Jude does, is that Connor is even less excited at the prospect of dinner with their parents than Jude, if such a thing is possible. 

“He’ll understand. I didn’t invite him, Mama did. She invited both of them. I’ll just stay in my room. You can tell them I went with Callie to the Quinns.”

“That’s  _really_  not going to work for Mama and me, love. Can you tell me why it is you don’t want to eat dinner with us?” She knows why and Jude knows that she knows and she knows that Jude knows that she knows. Will he say it? Frustrated at the intransigence of the adult world when faced with teenage obstinacy, Jude bites out a torrent of disjointed words at high speed. 

“I don’t want to see Connor’s dad, OK? He hates me. I won’t be able to eat in front of him. Why did you and Mama have to invite him? Things are fine as they are. Nothing needs to change. He lets me hang out with Connor at school and at the mall and the skate park. Seeing us in the same room is just going to make him think about us being boyfriends.” 

Even though he is not shouting, Jude’s breaking voice cracks and he shudders to a temporary halt. At some point during this tirade, his fists have curled into balls and the veins on his neck are standing out. Jude’s version of a melt down is typically harder on him than the person on the receiving end. Nevertheless, Stef finds it necessary to soothe herself with congratulatory self-talk about remembering to turn down the oven to its lowest heat setting. She reminds herself that she has her priorities straight and mounts the stairs again. She doesn’t try to touch Jude and stands apart from him, ready to offer comfort only if he invites it.  

“Jude. Look at me. Do you trust me and Mama?” He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose: once, twice.  

“I do trust you. But I’m afraid, Mom. What if I say the wrong thing or look at Connor in the wrong way and stir everything up worse than before. What if he tries to stop me from even being friends with Connor again?” With the shifty hesitance of an almost-fourteen-year-old Jude agitates himself a fraction closer and Stef pulls him into a tight embrace. She wishes for time to take Jude into her confidence, to tell him in so many words that the dinner is about Adam’s love for Connor and his fear that his son is slipping away from him.   

“You don’t have to worry, love. Mama and me—we’ve got this. There’s nothing you can do or say that’s wrong. You’re safe here. We love you. Oh my God, the doorbell and I haven’t even set the table.” Jude plants a kiss on her cheek. 

“It’s OK, Mom. I’ll let them in.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The Adams Foster sofa was an object of great comfort, not to say seduction. Adam Stevens could have rested his head against the silk cushion propped behind him for hours longer but the hands of the clock were creeping past ten-thirty and he and Connor had an early start in the morning. 

The beep of the car security system echoed in the quiet street as Adam ran briskly down the steps of the Adams Foster residence. Adjusting the side mirrors, he looked behind him, frowning and straining his eyes to make out the house silhouetted in the dim glow of the streetlights. Light from the hallway flowed out of the open front door onto the porch, which held two figures facing each other, their shadows completely merged.  

Adam turned his back to the two boys, hand on the driver’s side door. As he waited for them to be done, his heels lifted off the sidewalk and his upper back twitched in his hallmark impatient shrug. He didn’t even know he was doing it. 

“You’d better go. Your dad looks mad.” 

Connor leaned on his crutches, considered his move. Jude’s hands were in his pockets and his shoulders set in a way that strongly suggested he didn’t want to be touched right now. The shadows (one broad, one beanpole-thin) split apart as Connor backed slowly down the path. “Text me?”   

Jude nodded in a way that was intended to be reassuring but could easily be interpreted from a distance as brisk, friendly, dismissive. He watched Connor get in and the car pull away before turning to go back into the house. He leaned against the front door to close it, head down and hands still in his pockets as he pictured Connor in the car travelling away from him. He shook his head to clear it of clingy, cobwebby, Dementor-like thoughts and stomped up the stairs, pulling out his phone as he threw open the door to his room before crash-landing full-length on the bed. Family dinner with Connor’s dad might have been a lot worse, and the immense luxury of having his own room made up for a hell of a lot. 

A gentle tap on the door a moment later received a more or less affirmative grunt. Mariana waltzed in, sat down on the end of the bed, studied her nail polish and waited to be paid what she was owed—namely, appreciation—in the hard currency of information. His attitude of focused concentration and the phone in his hand might have told her that Jude was in the middle of a conversation and not to be disturbed, but his sister could be very dense when she wanted to be. 

“What is it?” Jude was definitely turning into a teenager before everyone’s eyes. First boyfriends will do that to a person.  

“Oo—ooh, hoity-toity!”

“Sorry. I mean—it’s just…” Jude widened his eyes and sketched vague circles in the air with his free hand. With this gesticulation he intended to convey not only that a text from Connor was incoming but also how  _extremely_  crucial it was to leave him alone and let him deliver a punctual response. Mariana got up as if to leave but moved only to the chair where she remained bolt upright, fixing her precious Judicorn with a beady, provocative eye. 

Jude finally cracked. A determined Mariana was a formidable adversary: she might as well have been wearing size seven hobnail boots and wielding a crowbar. Putting down his phone, he sat up and faced her with legs crossed. An elderly house spider idling among the dust bunnies under Jude’s bed shrank in terror as springs creaked and shifted six inches overhead. Smoothing down invisible ruffles on her skirt, Mariana commenced the next stage of Jude’s romantic education. 

“So, hey, mister. Tonight, if I recall correctly, I left you guys by yourselves in my room for, let’s see, um, twenty minutes. With Moms right downstairs, guests in the house. The level of commotion if they’d caught you would have been—” Mariana raised her arm over her head, palm down. “—yay high. It does not bear thinking about and, to be honest, I don’t even want Callie to find out. Now, was that or was that not extremely nice of me?” Mariana resumed her expectant silence. 

“O—kaaay…Um. What do you want? I mean, thanks, for sure, it was really awesome of you but…” Jude bounced impatiently on the bed, nodding his head in exaggerated gratitude. The spider-in-residence—we can call her Molly because that’s what Jude is going to name her when he encounters her crawling across his bathroom mirror next Saturday—crept an inch or so closer to the skirting board. Unmindful of Molly’s extreme discomfort, Jude’s hand crept towards his phone.  

“Let me spell it out for you, buddy. A few details would be nice…” Mariana was given no time to finish her sentence. Her smile collapsed as Jude’s face curdled into a picture of disgust.

“ _Details_? Ugh. Go away. I’m busy.”

He wasn’t sorry for yelling at her: in that moment, Jude considered himself completely blameless. No one had ever asked for details before. For months, when all he’d wanted to talk about was Connor, they hadn’t picked up on any of his cues. All Jude wanted now was to be left in peace to explore the fragile space of a very new and tender relationship and to share his most cherished, intimate thoughts and feelings  _with his boyfriend and no one else_. If it wasn’t enough that he had to worry every damn day about Mr Stevens “accidentally” sending Connor crashing into another door, never mind what the rest of the world might do to the both of them, now he was expected to waste time fending off his siblings as well? Suffice to say, Jude’s trust in Mariana’s fundamentally delicate and discreet nature was in the process of being dealt a fatal blow. He jabbed his index finger at the open doorway.  

The hurricane of emotion unleashed in Mariana’s direction left her gasping. Everyone in Jude’s life knew he had something of a temper; in private it was a source of affectionate laughter within the family. Only Callie, who had known him the longest, realised it actually wasn’t cute or any sort of a joke when her little brother got angry enough to let it show. Connor had an inkling and would soon acquire a better understanding of the turbulence that defined Jude’s inner life. Mariana recoiled from the ferocity of Jude’s glowering face. His eyebrows were drawn together and his cheeks scrunched up. 

Having her friendly overture—for she had meant it as such—rejected in such an uncivil fashion hurt Mariana deeply. Crushed did not even begin to describe her feelings. Her regret was immediate and acute, followed quickly by a rising sense of injustice. Really, she had intended something less crass than his reaction implied. Did he honestly think she wanted a blow-by-blow description of them kissing? Ew. He was her  _brother_. Throughout history, no fifteen-year-old girl had ever been so misunderstood. 

Mariana left without wasting time on long-winded excuses and justifications. Not a stranger to conflict and with a precocious understanding of social interaction, she knew that tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, Jude would be able to hear words of apology and that would be the time to make amends. She went to her room, forlorn and forsaken, but filled with resolve to be a better sister in future. Yes, in the morning she would tell Jude how happy she was that he and Connor had found each other and leave it at that. However much she might want him to know he could talk to her about anything that might be worrying him, from now on she would have the sense to tread carefully before wading in with potentially intrusive questions. Earlier that day, Mariana, with some justifiable self-interest, had asked Moms why Mr Stevens had been asked over for family dinner. After all, she reasoned with them, it wasn’t as if anyone had ever shown the slightest flicker of interest in meeting Mat’s parents. Their response—get ready for dinner and stop belabouring them—did nothing to allay her suspicions. They were acting  _hella_  cagey, she now decided. Mariana was a smart girl. If Jude and Connor were in need of an ally against the parental units, she would offer her services like a shot. 

Inviolable solitude restored, Jude grabbed his phone and lay back against his pillows to wait. His last message asking Connor if his dad was mad with him and please to text him back was still on the screen. Empires fell and galaxies decayed as he stared at his phone. Jude’s breathing was rapid and shallow; he was blank-faced and utterly immobile apart from a spontaneous, semi-autonomic closing of his eyelids once every twenty seconds or so. To hold at bay the cobwebby thoughts he allowed his mind to wander to the stolen moments he’d shared with Connor earlier in the evening. They’d been careful not to speak above the volume of Mariana’s playlist in case the adults downstairs realised they were by themselves. It had been enough to lie side by side on the narrow bed, cocooned in private, Jude’s lanky limbs wreathed around Connor’s solid form, moving as little as possible so that Mariana’s squeaky metal bed frame didn’t give them away. Jude’s death grip on his phone slackened as he remembered his body turning of its own accord, being pulled in closer, tucking his head so that it rested in the hollow between Connor’s neck and shoulder. The memory of the warmth generated between them was soothing and he fell asleep, the hand holding his phone once again encircled in his boyfriend’s sticky palm. 

He awoke from the nap feeling calmer and ready to go to sleep properly. Checking his phone he saw that fifteen minutes had passed and still no text. Deducing correctly that Connor’s dad had issued an edict against any more screen time that night, he consoled himself with the thought that no news was probably good news. Jude let go of waiting for an answer and placed his phone carefully on the bedside table. Bouncing upright, he pounded his sneaker-shod feet to the floor on the way to the bathroom. Molly the spider scuttled away to colder safety; cowering under the radiator by the window. Downstairs, Stef and Lena, in the middle of a boring conversation about shopping for summer clothes, looked at the ceiling in resignation. 

Stef poured the dregs of the second bottle into their glasses. “Tomorrow then, you think?”

“I’ll ask Jude in the morning if he wants to go with me. We can make a day of it.” Lena yawned, hand on her lower back, as she reached down to empty the last stack of plates from the dishwasher. 

“That’s settled then—Callie has the midday shift at the diner so I’ll give her a ride on my way to the hospital with Mariana and you and Jude can go to the mall.” 

“Unless he and Connor have plans.”

“I think not. Didn’t Adam mutter something on his way out about driving to Bakersfield this weekend?” As soon as the words came out of Stef’s mouth she wanted to stuff them back in: Lena struggled to concentrate on the matter in hand when she was tired. 

“ _Bakersfield_?  _That’s_  where the wife is? Ex-wife?” 

“Yes, one of those, so I presumed. Don’t shoot me, love, I’m only the messenger.”  

Lena handed up the last plate and waited for Stef to pass her the colander. The dishtowel was clutched in her fists and she wore her fiercest mama-bear expression, on the verge of growling in annoyance. There was clear and present danger of abandoning the desultory clean-up and veering off-track into an unproductive post-mortem of the evening. Stef grabbed a bowl of leftovers, dove into the fridge and bought herself a few seconds under the cover of clattering dishes to figure out how she was going to distract Lena from working herself up into an indignant froth five minutes before bedtime. Too late.

“Honestly, that man. No wonder Connor has been looking exhausted at school."

"It's not that far."

"Eight hours in a car there and back, and he came out of the hospital, what, eight days ago?”

Stef closed the fridge and massaged her tight forehead, draining her glass and scanning the kitchen counter in vain hope of a third open bottle. It had been a long evening. Taking matters into her own hands, she gently prised the dishtowel out of Lena’s clenched fingers. Lena opened her mouth to speak again, only to be interrupted by a gentle kiss in the form of a silent question. Ceding the point, Lena corralled her recalcitrant, critical thoughts about Adam’s inadequacies as a parent and kissed back. Despite the lateness of the hour and the ache in her lower back, she managed to drag something resembling generosity from the depths of her soul. “OK, OK. Adam may not have a choice. I haven’t forgotten I promised to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“ _Thank you_. For a moment there, I thought we were in for it.” 

“No, honey, thank  _you_ , for everything you did tonight, I know it wasn’t easy. It was a crazy idea and we’re lucky it worked out as well as it did.” Lena surveyed the chaos in the kitchen with a dejected eye. 

“It’s late, we’re tired. Do you want to leave the rest of the dishes until morning?”

“I was really hoping you’d say that.”


	4. Chapter 4

During the short drive back home, Adam appeared to be concentrating on nothing but his driving. In actuality, he was thinking about something he’d heard earlier that evening that had stuck with him. Now he was taking his first fumbling steps towards putting it into operation. 

From Lena, somehow, the recommendation would have come across as uncomfortably touchy-feely. From pragmatic Stef, Adam was able to hear it as manifestly practical and constructive—if not exactly straightforward—advice. Having thought it through he’d decided the principle made perfectly logical sense. The problem was, he had not the faintest idea how to go about putting it into practice. How does a man of forty-some years stop hiding from his kid so as not to teach the aforementioned kid to hide everything away in his turn? Adam had not the faintest clue. 

***

Dinner had gone well. With the last of the dessert bowls cleared, there was a lull in the conversation. The girl, Mariana, asked to be excused and suggested the three of them play a board game upstairs. Adam met Lena’s eyes across the table, her eyebrows raised, his face carefully empty of expression. Not his house, not his rules. Stef stepped in. “Sure, love, good idea. Boys, you’re excused too. Remember the house rule, please. Mariana, you’re in charge.” Turning his head away as Connor, sitting next to him, blushed scarlet, Adam found himself catching the eye of Stef’s ex-husband who was sitting on his right. At first, he thought the guy was feeling sorry for him. This was unbearable and Adam felt his mask slipping. Then he noticed the beads of sweat on Mike’s upper lip and realised the guy was just glassy-eyed. It wasn’t entirely surprising. From the quantity of pie Mike had just put away, he was probably wishing he was at home so he could undo his belt a notch. 

 “Go on, kids. Take something from the cupboard.” Like animals escaped from the zoo, Connor and Jude had hurled themselves from the table and up the stairs. 

***

Fortunately the roads were empty of cars at this time of night. The car slowed to below the speed limit as he thought about his options. First things first. Against all better judgment and unable to come up with a single gambit for talking to his son, Adam decided instead to stick with what he knew. The subject he was about to broach was virtually guaranteed to be explosive. He really didn’t need to broach it at all, but Adam was nothing if not wedded to the rigid rules and high standards he set for himself and others. From the moment he’d closed the car door, Connor had been texting.  _No texting in the car_ , as the boy knew damn well, was an absolute injunction. 

When a child who has turned thirteen is the beneficiary of categorical parental inflexibility, dumb insolence on one side and intense frustration on the other is the inevitable result. Year in and year out, educators and pundits everywhere warn parents of seventh-graders that this is crunch time. Yet some people hold fast to outdated ideas about discipline and punishment. Connor bore the brunt of Adam’s authoritarianism and insistence on prescribed behaviours. Although he was starting to become aware of the vital importance of listening to his son and spending more time with him, Adam Stevens had little to no experience of exercising gentleness and self-restraint. His controlling tendencies didn’t come from nowhere. His own father had been old school—Old Testament in truth— and the child is the father of the man. 

Now that Connor had come out to him, Adam had travelled a long way down the road of acceptance in a relatively brief period. He was trying to see himself as lucky to have received a wake-up call before it was unquestionably too late. There was always time, the Adams-Fosters had said with quiet authority, to turn things around. Itching at being instructed, he was damn sure they were right and hopeful he would be able to repair the damage inflicted on his relationship with Connor. Adam pumped the gas unnecessarily, which did nothing for his fuel economy but relieved his feelings. How he wished his wife were waiting at home…Adam shut down that line of thought; there was nothing profitable in wishing for that.  

So, his son was gay. And he had a boyfriend. Judging by the vicious looks Jude Adams-Foster had been shooting Adam from his position across the table, Connor at least had the good sense to pick himself a fiercely protective boyfriend with a backbone. If nothing else, Jude’s show of grit and Connor’s ability to take care of himself, boded well for the future. Like hell it did. Everything about the situation of his thirteen-year-old son in an emotional and physical relationship with another boy (even in North America in 2015) filled Adam with fear. He shut down that line of thought as well. For crying out loud, what was wrong with him—it wasn’t like Connor had fucking cancer. 

Connor’s challenging behaviour could be located in his own lack of due care and attention over the past six months. He could throw around blame for the failure of his marriage and his personal failings as a father but the truth smacked him in the face at every turn. He was the parent at home; he was responsible. When in a position to play an active role in Connor’s life again—please God let it be soon—his wife would never forgive him if he had driven their son away. He could hear her voice in his ear as clear as if she was sitting in the seat across from him instead of their boy.  _Stop it, Adam. Stop blaming everyone but yourself. If Connor were straight, you’d still have to deal with first relationships and detonating hormones and sex. Not to mention all the other risks. What are you doing to educate him about drugging and drinking, huh—we have more to worry about in that regard than most people, wouldn’t you say?_  

Sporadic but increasing bouts of outright rudeness and disobedience, coincident with his wife’s absence, were a recent, worrying symptom. Adam was not looking forward to tomorrow when he would finally face her questions about the latest incident of Connor acting out and the risky behaviour that had landed him in the hospital in need of surgery and a blood transfusion. 

Adam’s frustration at the difficulty of striking up a perfectly simple conversation with his son spiked with the buzzing of another incoming text. Rather than taking the infraction personally and succumbing to his impulse to bark out an order to put the damn phone away right this second, he waited for Connor to finish typing his reply before saying anything. In the heat of the moment, it was commendable that he remembered this small but key item of Adams-Foster parenting lore. The pause bought him a second or two to think strategically, an area in which Adam Stevens excelled. He’d humbled himself to ask for assistance in talking to his son and the consensus had been clear: respect, negotiation and compromise. The risks of addressing Connor as an equal seemed high against the depressingly low chances of a good outcome, but at this point Adam was game to try anything. He exerted himself to speak calmly and evenly. “Connor?” He glanced across the space between them. Connor’s eyes remained glued to the screen. 

“Huh?” 

“I’d really like it if you’d put the phone away.” Out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw Connor’s head come up and turn to the left. There was a pause during which Adam did nothing but brake, swing the steering wheel around and pull onto his driveway. He switched off the ignition and turned to face his son. “What d’you say—a quick round of golf before bed?” To his utter surprise, Connor tucked his phone into his back pocket. 

“Sure, why not?” They got out of the car in a silence that Adam could persuade himself felt cordial, if not exactly friendly. He made up his mind; it was too late to try and talk to Connor tonight. As a business man, Adam believed in the power of small wins as the best way to drive innovative work. Besides, he had an idea. 

At half-past eleven Adam climbed the stairs on an important errand. Two glasses of wine felt like hours ago, he was stone cold sober but resisted the temptation to blur the edges with another drink. Six months ago, a finger of whisky every Friday and Saturday night before bed had started out as a well-deserved reward for a long week at work, but it was in danger of becoming a habit he couldn’t afford to let slide. Connor’s door was ajar. Adam noted with satisfaction the light was already off, but at that moment the momentary flash of a blue screen coming to life gave the game away. As he passed Connor’s room, Adam let his foot fall a fraction heavier and the faint glow disappeared. He found what he needed on the top shelf of the landing cupboard. Two minutes later he reascended the stairs to his cold bedroom, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor for the cleaning woman to deal with. 


	5. Chapter 5

  
5 A.M. 

Adam Stevens wakes with a churning of bedclothes caused by an involuntary flexing of his limbs and spine. 

As his initial sensation of panic recedes and the familiar feeling of irritation settles over him, he tosses and turns for a few moments before giving up in disgust. He throws back the bedclothes, grabs his robe from the hook and slips downstairs quietly so as not to wake Connor. 

He heads for the kitchen, his body informing his conscious mind that his direction is motivated by the search for a glass of tap water. He picks up a filter jug holding water that is two days old. Best not to wonder when the filter was last changed—Adam and Connor, if asked, would be clueless. Adam swigs from the glass without noticing the rank, musty taste of the liquid; his attention is on the other side of the kitchen. He wanders over to the breakfast bar running along the wall adjoining the garage and stares down at the book he placed there a few hours ago. 

Adam is currently regretting a spur-of-the-moment decision. Basking in the glow of an atypical Saturday night of familial warmth and adult conversation, the notion of attempting to teach Connor by way of example rather than decree felt within in his grasp. Now, he feels stupid and embarrassed for entertaining the possibility of sharing a part of his own history with his son and making himself vulnerable. As he always does when consumed with self-doubt and/or self-recrimination, he distracts, grabbing a jumbo bag of chips even as he pushes away the thought that trans fats at this time of day, on top of a tumbler of water, will certainly give him heartburn. 

Shelving emotional decision-making for the moment in favour of junk food (who hasn’t been there), he stops running his fingers over the book sitting on the counter, heads for the living-room and collapses into the mindless safety of his armchair. After a few minutes of cramming chips into his mouth, he brushes crumbs and grease from his fingers, opens his laptop and begins to surf the Internet. 

He scrolls through the tech news feeds. Ordinarily this activity is enough to bore him back to sleep but today warm, pleasant images of the Adams Foster house supplant the pictures of men with bad haircuts and worse glasses, VR headsets and occasional, random kittens. Adam’s desperation to reconnect with Connor has woken him from a six-month long stupor. To some extent, the anxiety that drove him to call Lena is being alleviated by the memory of an evening spent in the embrace of a chaotic, stable, loving family home. Forming the intention to reconcile himself to the news that Connor is gay is a good beginning. Having seen the boys together an unexpected relief is finding the experience, if not comfortable, then at least tolerable. He plans on welcoming Jude into his house. This decision is not simply a priority; for Adam it is a necessity. 

Not now, but soon, he is going to need to carry through his resolution to open himself and his past to his son. This objective is more troublesome to contemplate, as it will require him actually to talk to Connor instead of issuing orders and making demands. Adam approaches this difficulty in the same way as other things in his personal life, as taking care of business. The first step will be to go back over the conversation with Stef and Lena, review their counsel and commit it to heart.   

Adam Stevens’ weak flank is complacency, which is related to his pigheadedness and impulsivity. His recent efforts to ameliorate a painful situation—one he has been largely instrumental in creating—have missed their target. Connor, who loves his father, as yet has no inkling of Adam’s positive resolutions. Jude has no reason to trust him and, in his experience, adults, however well-intentioned, bring harm as often as help.

Adam closes the lid of the laptop and tosses the empty bag in the wastebasket. Poised to switch off the light in the kitchen, he is arrested once again by the book lying on the worktop. This time, he opens it up and has no trouble putting his hand on what he is looking for. He reads something, replaces it. Back in bed, he falls asleep in seconds.


	6. Chapter 6

6 A.M.

Jude Adams Foster awoke to the silence of six a.m. Last night, tired out, he’d forgotten to close the blinds. Blinking away the sunrise perforating his eyeballs, he rolled over and reached for his phone to find four texts from Connor waiting for him: 

_sorry about b4. dad was in a good mood for once. we played pga tour when we got home. u still up?_

_sucks not seeing u tomorrow_  

_did u fall asleep?_

_night night sleep well sweet dreams_

He texted Connor back immediately: 

_glad yr dad was cool. miss u already_

Jude smiled at his abject display of utter cheesiness. A reply was not forthcoming and he surprised himself by how sad this made him feel. The message was cheesy, but it was also true. Jude reasoned correctly that Connor was one hundred per cent likely still asleep and that in any case he needed to adjust his expectations and accustom himself to the prospect of a day without constant attention from his boyfriend. Now fully awake, he jumped out of bed, galumphed around his single occupancy bedroom for approximately ten seconds, then took off downstairs in search of diversion. 

Jude ended up in the kitchen, a disaster area of dessert bowls, serving spoons, and pans covered with dried on mashed potato and specks of broccoli littering every surface. He fetched a bowl of cereal and, after digging out a clean spoon, cleared himself a space at the table by the simple expediency of elbowing stuff out of the way. 

He sat and crunched and thought about what he was going to do with an entire day that, Connor-less, stretched ahead of him as cheerless, barren and empty as the surface of the moon. He couldn’t understand why he felt so out of sorts. It wasn’t as though he needed a boyfriend in order to be happy and occupied; Jude took a moderate amount of pride in his self-sufficiency. The problem wasn’t that he would be bored or lonely without Connor’s company. The issue was that he was still feeling irritable, a hangover from the night before. He could not put a finger on why; he was troubled by a sinking sense of disquiet. The memory of what had triggered his black mood last night was hazy—half-buried but not forgotten. His anxiety had peaked when Adam and Connor drove away into the night. 

Last night, in the girls’ room, enjoying the dumb game of Clue after what had been, for him, a prolonged and stressful meal, he finally relaxed. One moment Mariana was with them, suggesting it was Professor Plum, in the conservatory, with the lead pipe; the next he and Connor were by themselves. His sister’s affectionate bossiness was merely the last straw. If truth be told, Jude was blaming Connor, a little, and himself most of all. Jude, who liked to take his time, made the rookie mistake of letting his guard down. He wished, cloudily, that the decision to be alone with his boyfriend had not been the result of a hurried, three-way conversation, over before Jude could voice his doubts to himself or anyone else. Having any portion of his choice taken away unsettled him. Jude could not help but feel that, without eyes on the clock, he and Connor would have been more alert to the heightened significance of the moment. The delightful sensation of cuddling on a bed would have been more pleasurable still without consciousness of Connor’s father right downstairs. 

Jude was not thinking any of this with perfect, or even imperfect, clarity. His thoughts did not form into a coherence. He was aware only of a general malaise and missing Connor. Jude pushed his cereal bowl away, picked up his phone and sent Connor another text message. 

He spent the next ten minutes cajoling himself into a more sensible, proportionate frame of mind. He would go to the skate park later. 

Just then, his phone buzzed, jumping and skittering across the table.


	7. Chapter 7

6.15 A.M.

 

Connor Stevens was dragged into full wakefulness the second time his phone buzzed. 

The first message plastered a grin on his face the size of a melon slice. He was a lovesick fool and he didn’t give a monkey’s. At the earliest opportunity, he wanted, not the whole world, but at least the important people in his life to share his ridiculous level of joy in finding himself, at long last, Jude Adams Foster’s boyfriend. He couldn’t wait for school to be out. Dragging himself around on those dumb crutches when his foot was killing him after a long day was the least of it. The blessing of Jude notwithstanding, life was getting to be just a bit too much right now and he needed respite. Connor was under the mistaken impression he was in for a summer of free range parenting. Serious decompression time in the company of his boyfriend, that was the ticket, with no interruptions of homework or make-nice dinners with his dad—or eight-hour round trips at the weekend. At this sad thought, the smile dropped off his face. To push it away he looked quickly down at his phone.

_hope u have a nice time with yr mom today_

The second message reminded Connor of something important he needed to do and he began scrolling through the pictures on his phone. Before long, he found the one taken in the movie theatre foyer last Saturday. Looking at the photo cheered him. It had been raining outside and Jude’s hair was soaked and stuck down around his face. He’d snapped it the moment before Jude, in his blue poncho, went to roundhouse kick a cardboard cutout of some old actor dude and the lobby attendant shouted at them. Connor replaced his old phone background with the photo. Today he was going to talk to his mother about his boyfriend and show her his latest picture.   

He looked at the time: an hour or more before he had to be up, showered and ready to leave. Going back to sleep was an option but he put it aside. Showering whilst keeping his foot dry was awkward. Bathroom necessaries over and done with, he dumped the contents of his backpack on the floor, picked out what he didn’t needed for the drive, and shoved his unloved history and science homework back in his bag. The likelihood of getting anything done was remote, but Dad would nag him if he didn’t have it with him. Head buzzing louder than his phone at the prospect of the day ahead, his growling stomach informed Connor he was a growing boy. 

He was slapping peanut butter and jelly between two slices of bread when he noticed something unusual. Occupying a more or less clean space on the grimy kitchen counter was a hefty hardback book. He picked up the book and turned it over in his hands. In small block capitals parading across the bottom of the front cover were the words, _Ridgeview High School Senior Class_. The yearbook was a distressed reddish colour and the front cover had a cheesy graphical design. Sweeping across it in shiny, chrome-effect type, the year—1989—hovered over the background like a TV i-dent. Fabric softener, the smell of the landing cupboard, overlaid a fainter trace of dust and old paper. 

Connor’s stomach twisted in fearful excitement. This was bounty from the top-secret top shelf, the place where his parents hid his gifts from Santa Claus when he was a little kid. His curiosity about what his dad kept up there now was intense. Did he have the balls to find out? 

He delicately replaced the book—left out by mistake, of course—exactly in the space where he’d found it. 

It is important to understand that high on Connor’s list of priorities was the need to avoid an argument. The prospect of being trapped for half a day, a helpless passenger, listening to his dad railing on other drivers or, worse, having the verbal pummelling directed at him did not appeal. Past experience led Connor to anticipate irritation and intensified demands when mistakes occurred. Confronting Adam with mistakes that were indisputably his own was a critical situation to avoid, as this could prompt nit-picking interrogations lasting for hours. In this instance, Connor’s need to cover up Adam’s untidiness in leaving out the book stemmed from an unconscious impulse. He hoped to camouflage a bigger mistake in his dad’s eyes, that of fathering a gay son. Connor had not been yelled at since the night he came out and was confused by his dad’s abnormally polite and restrained behaviour towards him. Connor suspected the enigmatic hush was only temporary and that a second, bigger, eruption was in the post. 

With the goal of averting this, Connor limped into the living-room to look for a hiding-place and consider his options. The bookcase on the far wall was an obvious place to start. A tray on top held his dad’s Irish whisky and two crystal glasses (the level in the decanter seemed about the same as the night before). The sparse shelves held coffee-table books belonging to his mom, his dad’s sporting memoirs and a few maps and guide books. Dusting aside, the contents of the bookcase had not been disturbed in several months. Hiding the yearbook between a couple of the taller books on the bottom shelf was one possibility.

He shuffled back to the kitchen, uneaten sandwich forgotten in his hand. 

Connor paused with his hand outstretched over the book. Confounded, he was caught between alternatives. The cleaner, potentially more deniable, choice was to leave the book where it was and act like he hadn’t noticed it was there. 

There was, however, a fatal flaw in both plans: his burning curiosity. 

Connor, like Jude, was accustomed to making himself smaller and exercising discretion in navigating the unpredictability of the adult world. His experiences were not those of children who, through a chain of circumstances, find themselves in the chilly hands of the institutionalised care system. Yet the outward snug smugness of the Stevens’ suburban split-level ranch house concealed behind its wooden and glass front door a permanent sadness and the commonplace secrets typical of unhappy families. For Connor, home had never been an entirely safe place. He knew he was lucky. He had always lived in the same place and his bedroom, well-stocked with games and books and sports equipment, was his private domain. 

When he was little, Connor had asked all the usual questions children ask, trying to elicit the combination to the great vault of secrets that parents seem to keep hidden away. A household headed up by two people locked in an unhappy partnership leaves little space for playful, open-ended conversation. The family environment had not been conducive for story-telling. Adam, his fuse short from climbing the corporate ladder during the week, in his spare time numbed himself with TV sports and coaching Connor at baseball and answered his son’s questions in monosyllables or not at all. When he was younger, Connor had wanted the stories. Now, he wanted the secrets. He wanted to know what his father had been before he became this sketch, this caricature of an authority figure who resorted to yelling and laying down the law when the world—and Connor—failed to match up to his expectations. Perhaps the younger Adam had also struggled with terrors and uncertainties and doubts and desires and confusions. Connor hesitated. Just one look couldn’t hurt, right? 

A sticky glob of jelly hovered over the book, ready to smear itself across the cover. 

Snatching his hand back and wiping it on his pants, Connor pulled his phone out of his back pocket and called Jude’s number. 

“Hi! What’s up?”

“You busy?”

“Just loading the dishwasher.”

“Oh. Sorry. Uh—”  Connor did not know what to say next. He sensed this was not a decision to be taken lightly or alone but struggled actually to ask for help.

“What? No, I’m not busy. Are you OK? Is it your dad?”

“Sort of. It’s hard to explain over the phone. Can you maybe come over for, like, ten minutes or whatever?”

“Totally.”

“That’d be awesome. Be quick.”

“See you in five.”

“ _Thank you_.” 

Connor left the book where it was, climbed onto a barstool and settled in to wait for Jude. The peanut butter in his sandwich overpowered the taste of the bread and it was not until his second bite that Connor noticed it tasted weird. His mouth fell open as he turned the sandwich around, scrutinising it. His suspicions proved to be correct: there were spots of greenish mould speckling the crust. He leaned forward and a semi-masticated lump of toxic waste dropped onto the breakfast bar. Picking it up between dainty fingers, he dumped the lot in the bin and went to get a glass of juice to take the taste away. 

Connor gazed into the cavernous space of the refrigerator with bitter resignation. Of course, they were out. He guessed he’d have water instead. By the time his mouth felt clean again, Jude was turning up the driveway. 

Flapping panicked circles in the air with his arms, Connor hobbled to the window as quickly as he could.


	8. Chapter 8

6.30 A.M. 

Connor’s frantic waving went unseen. Jude, smart as a new-scraped carrot, did nothing so asinine as ringing the front door bell; he found a spot to wait where he couldn’t be seen from any of the windows. Before he could text Connor, his back pocket buzzed.

 _side door, garage_  

Jude left his bike in the weeds growing up through the paving slabs between the house and the fence around the property.  Connor was waiting for him in the extremely neat garage. Harsh strip lighting illuminated garden tools suspended between the rafters. Open storage cabinets containing camping equipment, toolboxes and car parts lined the walls. A workbench running across the width of the room held tubs of screws in orderly rows and there was a comforting whiff of engine oil in the air. 

Connor was pushing a hand through his hair in a characteristic gesture of nervous excitement. Otherwise, he was outwardly calm. Jude was happy to find that the summons was not an emergency. On a hypothalamic–pituitary–adrenal level, he began to relax.  

“Hey.” He walked over and hugged Connor as best he could. The bulkiness of the hardback book Connor was clutching to his chest got in the way somewhat. “You OK? What’s this?”

Connor explained the situation. A minute later, the two boys stood, hands touching and heads together, looking down at the year book. Connor had decided Adam’s workbench was a clean enough surface. Jude traced the chrome-effect lettering of the date with a finger.

“Cool cover.” 

“You’re joking, right?”

“No. It’s awesome.” Jude’s index finger followed the pleasing shape of the eight. “See this—it’s airbrushing.”

“Like retouching pictures?”

“Not photoshop. By hand. Like spray painting.”   

“Oh.” Connor did not find the appearance of the cover aesthetically pleasing. As is often the case when an uninitiated person views a work of art, he struggled to appreciate the finesse of the method deployed in the design of the yearbook. Thus, sadly, he judged it to be without merit.   

Connor flipped through the book, finding his dad’s picture without difficulty as the book fell open at the correct page. Bits of paper scattered themselves over the dusty floor. Connor scrabbled to rescue them whilst Jude’s discriminating eye took in a generic headshot. Adam the teenager had the appearance of straying, not too far, onto the alternative side. Thick hair, parted on one side, curled over his ears a few inches longer than necessary for strict conformity. The goofy grin might have been Connor looking out of the page. This was disconcerting and he shifted his attention to the caption. “What does this mean?”

“ _Feet on the ground, head in the sky_. Movie quote, I guess?” 

The boys shrugged and moved on. The rest of the caption was thinly uninformative, predictably focused on sports: baseball, cycling, hiking. Making up for this deficiency were dozens of handwritten messages in a variety of colours and styles of penmanship. In high school, Adam, like Connor, had acquired status via sports. His peers seemed to look up to him; the overall portrait was that of a respected but not especially well-liked guy: “ _Thank you for the past four years and making our baseball team winners_.” “ _Good luck, Adam, we all expect you to do great things_.” Most of the notes—girls with crushes, team mates and other nobodies from the senior class—were similarly bland and dull. Some of them were weakly crude in-jokes: “ _Keep handling those balls, dude!_ ” and so on. 

Jude’s lip curled and he continued searching. Some of the messages were hard to make out because they’d been written in gold or silver pen. Connor was squinting to try and read a big one that sprawled across the middle of the page covering part of his dad’s face. The curly girls’ handwriting had little smiley faces dotting the ‘i’s and the whole message was encircled by tiny, carefully-rendered hearts. The warmth of long-extinguished emotion poured off the page and Jude was stricken by a pang of fellow feeling that was entirely unexpected. He nudged Connor. “What’s it say?”

“ _Adam, you’re going to be awesome in Miami! Never change and don’t forget about us when you’re rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Love forever and always, Lori._ ”

“Do you know who that is? It’s not your mom?”

“Nope. They met in college.” 

They progressed to the scraps of paper Connor had retrieved from the floor. These were more intriguing. One was folded into a tiny square. Connor nodded his approval and Jude opened it with the utmost care. The thin, lined, paper torn out of a spiral-bound notebook felt like it could tear along the folds at any moment. “Read it,” Connor said. 

“ _Hey, Stevens, go fuck yourself, but we’ll always have Paris—love hearts and other flowery shit, your Jellybean (Karen) S.W.A.L.K._ ” Jude stared at Connor, whose mouth was hanging open. 

“Here’s another one.” Connor peered at the tiny, cramped, masculine handwriting, reading it out slowly. “ _Adam, Lori, Dan, and Kar. ’87—’88._ ” Connor hesitated, stumbling over the next bit. “ _‘Toujours le dernier a savoir.’_ ”

“Is that French? Weird.” 

“There’s a bit more. _Don’t forget about me and stay loose, you crazy motherfucker, Dan xxx._ ” 

“Woah,” said Jude, with superior understatement. 

Connor started sweeping the notes together back into the book. His hands were clumsier than usual and it seemed to take him forever. Feeling antsy, Jude looked at his watch. “I’d better go. Your dad’s going to be mad if he finds me here.”

“Wait.” Connor shoved the book out of sight behind a pile of camping gear. “Don’t rush off. Stay for a bit.” 

“You asked me over to look at the book with you. We’ve done that. He could come downstairs any minute.”

Jude started backing slowly towards the side door, feeling a surge of anger at Connor’s demand for him to stay and assumption that he would. Connor, looking mutinous, stuck his head round the glass door to the kitchen, came back into the garage and closed the kitchen door softly behind him. It was a new door and it shut with barely a click. “We’re fine. Plenty of time. We didn’t say goodbye properly last night. Why were you acting weird?”

“Your dad was right there!”

“Fuck him.”

Jude continued backing towards the door. Words were cheap, but the stakes of their situation were high. _I told my dad I’m gay_. Connor could be impulsive, but it had been sensible of him to do it in the hospital with people around to cushion the impact. _Fuck my dad_. Easy to say when his dad was asleep in another room and could not hear. Not that Jude wanted Connor’s dad to hear. 

“I have to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”

“Hey, come on. Please.”

Connor was limping towards him, hand outstretched, but Jude had already reached the external door. Directly in his line of sight, behind Connor’s head, Jude saw the kitchen door begin to open and the outline of Adam’s body silhouetted in the glass. He bolted. 


	9. Chapter 9

7 A.M. 

Connor did not hear Adam calling him as he gave chase. He slammed the garage door behind him.

Cramming his helmet on his head, Jude had taken off at top speed. The bike was getting to be way too small for him, so top speed was pretty low and, under normal circumstances, Connor, hotfooting it, had no trouble keeping up. Today there was little chance of him catching Jude before he reached home. 

Bewildered and hurt at being unceremoniously abandoned, Connor was determined to try. “Jude! Wait up, please.”

He hopped and hobbled down the street, the sound of his voice bouncing off the houses on either side of the quiet, tree-lined suburban street. Jude was passing the entrance to the kids’ playground when he finally slowed and turned around. Jude’s face registered shock and anger as he jumped off the bike, threw it down on the verge and ran back towards Connor. 

“What the hell are you doing? You’re not supposed to be walking on that!” Jude reached Connor and grabbed him around the waist, pulling Connor’s arm over his shoulder. He held him up while Connor rested his foot, which was starting to throb like a bastard. 

Tears came into his eyes and he swept them angrily away. “What was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t wait for me.” Connor heard the needy whine in his voice and it sickened him. “Let go of me. I can manage.”

Jude just looked at him. “Seriously? Don’t be ridiculous.”

They made their way slowly to the playground. With Jude’s help, he limped painfully across the sandy surface surrounding the climbing frames, slides, and zip lines. Resting on a swing, he watched Jude retrieve his bike from the road and lean it against a palm tree. Without a word, Jude knelt down in the sand in front of the swing and started to untie the lace of Connor’s sneaker. He felt a twinge somewhere near where he imagined his heart to be and tears sprang to his eyes again. 

“What were you playing at, dummy? A phone call might have been a better idea, or no?” Gently, Jude waggled the shoe until it came off and laid it on the sand before peeling off Connor’s sock. The relief of air hitting his foot took the sting out of Jude’s words. 

“It’s your fault,” he grumbled. “You took off so fast I left it behind.”

“Didn’t your dad try and stop you?”

“My dad?” Connor wiggled his toes and rotated his ankle like the physical therapist had told him. The thickness of the dressing around the arch of the foot made it difficult. He was sorely tempted, not for the first time, to take a pair of scissors to the damn thing. Mom always said, when he bumped his knee, that fresh air was better than a plaster. When he got home, he would put scissors in his bag, just in case. How he was going to cover the two hundred yards back to his house, even with Jude to support him, Connor was not entirely sure. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Connor was yanked from his pain-filled daze by Jude snapping his fingers in front of his face. 

“He was right behind you.”

“I guess we were too quick for him.” 

Jude, cross-legged in the sand, frowned. “Maybe.” 

Connor gave a gentle push to start the swing. The experiment in increasing air flow to his foot was a success. The pain was beginning to ease a little, freeing his attention to focus on other things. “Is that why you ran off?”

Jude dug in the ground and closed his fist around a handful of sand. His forehead was wrinkled and his lower lip protruding. Connor, familiar with tell-tale signs of emotions running high, hoped that Jude was not about to cry, as it would set him off again. Possibly Jude was less upset than mad. The frailty of his current state probably exempted him from the risk of a kick to the kidneys on this occasion. Besides, to his knowledge, he had not done anything to provoke such an attack—at least not recently.  

The sand trickled out from between Jude’s fingers. When he spoke, his voice was low, reluctant. “Yes. I ran off because your dad scares me, OK? And that’s why I didn’t hug you when we said goodbye last night. I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you’d be mad.”

That Jude dreaded seeing Adam was not news to Connor. Frankly, it was starting to get on his last nerve. He lived with his dad and knew him better than Jude, better than anyone. 

The truth of the matter was that Connor, like all children, loved his parents without reserve and this led him to make excuses when they failed him. A spark of exasperation flared in his voice.

 “You don’t need to be scared. He knows you’re my boyfriend. I don’t see why I can’t…” 

Connor grabbed the chains of the swing above his head, pulled himself to a standing position on one leg and rested most of his weight on his arms. Stretching his spine discharged his irritation and bought him a few seconds to think about what it was he wanted Jude to hear. _Take my time over saying goodbye. Hold your hand. Hug you._ Why couldn’t he say it? He struggled to find the right words. “My dad is getting used to us. He just needs time.”

Jude pushed himself to his feet. He was not about to run off again, though it is possible the temptation was there. Turning, he mirrored Connor’s movements on the other swing. Extra height and lack of eye contact created a helpful distance for this tricky conversation. 

“Fine, Connor. He’ll get used to us. What about me?”

“What do you mean?”

Connor’s innocent obtuseness, or possibly the two-arm hanging he was doing, ventilated a gale of questions pent up inside Jude. “Is that how it’s going to be? I’ll get used to anything, in time? Do you just get to kiss me or whatever any time you want?”

“No! Jeez. That is not what I said.” A little voice in the back of Connor’s mind told him to wait, take a breath, not to say it. He said it. “You’re being crazy right now.” 

Jude—whose sister was not nicknamed Callie-amity for nothing—did not rise to this transparent incitation. “Good attempt at distracting me, Connor. Ten points. But you don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You know, it was nice, last night, when Mariana left us alone. I was glad it happened even though I was scared the whole time we were going to get caught. And then after you’ve gone she comes into my room and starts talking about how _she_ could have got in trouble and like it’s all a big fucking joke. It’s not a joke. Your dad—he’s hurt you before. And he’s never once apologised. So excuse me if I don’t feel like kissing you on the doorstep and falling into line because you want to prove a point.”

Connor slid down and collapsed on the swing, fully in tears again. “Stop it, would you? I never even tried to kiss you. I shouldn’t have said you were being crazy. I was being an ass and I’m sorry. I get it, all right?” He struggled to get the conversation back on a firmer footing. “Last night was OK, though, wasn’t it? Better than we thought it would be. When we said goodbye, I just wanted—” 

He did not know what he wanted. He knew that his foot hurt. He also knew he was really scared about today. He hadn’t seen his mom in over a month and had no idea how she was going to be. He was scared of being asked to go over what happened at Taylor’s house and a big part of him wanted to forget that he had ever been shot. All he wanted was for her to be in a good mood so they could laugh and she could muss his hair and he could tell her about Jude. He felt that life was unfair, and that he really did not need to be worrying over Jude and his dad right now. Simply put, Connor wanted his mom. He also wanted Jude to know how much he cared about him. 

He slid off the swing. Lowering himself onto the sand, he held out his hand in invitation. “Jude, I’m not—not using you. Let me try and explain, would you?” 

Jude’s angry face softened and he let go of the swing, crumpling onto the sand and extending his hand to Connor’s. They sat for a while, thumbs rubbing together, and breathing slowly in time with each other. With a final shudder, Connor’s tears stopped flowing. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of the hand that wasn’t holding Jude’s. 

He focused, trying to figure out how to show Jude what he meant by a proper goodbye. He started with the simple truth. “I guess I’m kind of a mess about seeing my mom today. Thanks for coming over. I’m really glad you did.” 

There was nobody in sight and they were partially shielded from the road by the row of palm trees. Nervously checking the perimeter of the playground, Jude leaned forward and kissed Connor on the lips. “Sorry I made you cry.” 

Connor shivered, losing himself for a moment in Jude’s half-lidded eyes. His hand came up to Jude’s shoulder to pull him into a hug. They sat, knees touching and arms wrapped around each other, faces buried in each other’s necks. 

Feeling the tension leaving Jude’s body, Connor risked saying something. “You need to stop worrying about me. I can handle my dad. It’s not your problem.”  

“Okay.” Jude kissed him again, on the cheek this time. "I’ll try. I promise." Letting his hands slip from around Connor’s neck, he sat up. “We need to think about getting you home. Let me know how it goes with your mom?"

"I'll text." Connor reached for his sock and sneaker. “I don’t know about everything else. We have to figure it out. Did your moms talk to my dad about me spending time at your house this summer?”

Jude shrugged and collected his bike. “You know as much as I do. There’s no point bugging them with questions. What about that book? D'you think he left it out on purpose? Looked that way.”

It was Connor’s turn to shrug. Rolling over onto his knees, he pulled himself up by the swing. “Stranger things have happened. Where are you going? Uh—need a little help here.” 

Jude pushed off on his bike, calling back over his shoulder. “You’re not walking another step on that foot. Stay here. I’m going to get your dad.”


	10. Chapter 10

The car soared along the freeway, heading south. They were halfway home, skirting Los Angeles. It had not been a successful day for either Connor or Adam. The two of them were sunk in their separate worlds and wishing the tiresome drive over. They would be home in two hours, give or take.

This was the last time they would have to make the close to five hundred mile round trip. Talking over the painful details of the shooting in person had galvanised Connor’s parents into something like action. For now, Adam would continue as the custodial parent, remain in the family home with Connor and visitation arrangements would be worked out later. It was not satisfactory for anyone. 

The drive to Kern County that morning had been equally silent. 

Jude had left Connor at the playground and gone directly to the front door of the Stevens’ house. Adam greeted him politely but when Jude reported Connor’s location and condition, his annoyance showed in the set of his shoulders and irate looks. Jude stood his ground. “You saw us, in the garage, didn’t you? Why didn’t you follow him, stop him from coming after me?” From the doorstep, Jude blazed at the temperature of molten glass until Adam’s icy glare dissolved into a quizzical frown. “His foot’s hurting, he needs your help,” Jude rapped out. “Take the car.” 

“Wait here.” 

Adam ran up to Connor’s room to fetch his pain meds and crutches. The loathed boot was sitting in the middle of the floor next to the pile of school crap spread out over the carpet. Adam snatched it up. When he came back downstairs, Jude was turning right out of the driveway, going in the opposite direction to the playground. His plan was to cycle home the long way round, avoiding more upset to Connor. “Hey!” yelled Adam. “I’ll give you a ride!” Hands trembling on the handlebars, Jude kept pedalling. 

The kid was a stubborn little ass. Adam grabbed the ignition key to the Merc and went to fetch his son. He found him languishing on the swing in the little park at the end of the street where they had spent happy hours playing together when Connor was a little boy. 

Finally on the road, an hour later than planned, the journey had passed in glacial silence. Connor blamed Adam for chasing Jude off and Adam blamed Jude for inciting Connor into putting pressure on his injured foot. In addition, Adam regretted his earlier indecision. Catching sight of the two boys through the door to the garage, a brief impulse of sympathy had stopped him from going after them. That, and he had wanted his coffee. He had one job to do, which was protect his son and he had failed to protect him from being reckless with his own health. Adam blamed the lapse on himself, but took it out on Connor with peevish ill-temper, rescinding his phone privileges after just a few minutes of illicit texting and holding onto it for the remainder of the four-hour journey upstate. 

The chilly atmosphere had set the tone for the rest of the day and now they were sweeping their way home down the Chino Valley Freeway, their faces intermittently washed by the light of overtaking cars.

Connor, in a light painkiller-induced haze, was wearing his dad’s over-ear headphones plugged into his smartphone and listening to music turned up to a higher volume than it really needed to be. The phone battery was running low but this did not matter for the moment, as he was about to doze off. The charger was currently residing in the mixture of items on his bedroom floor, overlooked when Connor had packed that morning. 

He was immensely tired, exhausted not only by the throbbing in his foot but by the dull, simmering resentment and anxious uncertainty that had been gripping him all day. Lunch at a sterile chain restaurant was marked by a series of texts. Jude was at the mall shopping for new clothes and this helped to bolster Connor’s endurance. All through lunch, he had battled, head down, through the teeth of the ice storm of his parents’ splintering marriage. The afternoon, with just him and his mom, was over too soon. They were back on the road by six p.m and it was now eight. 

As Connor fell asleep, his thoughts were of his mom’s words about Jude’s picture on his phone. “Oh! That smile. He’s as cute as a button. And _tall_ , my goodness.” She’d ruffled his hair, handed back the phone and said, “What a good choice, honey.” She laughed at the text that came through when they were talking: _thought we were done but no._ She encouraged him to text back: _what now?_ The response was pithy. _pants and a new shirt._ His mom asked him what he was grinning at. Connor was bowled over by how it felt to have someone tease him about Jude. A warm glow spread all over his body and made his hands clumsy on the touchscreen. He said that his boyfriend liked dressing nicely and that Jude was having a better time than he was pretending. The texts had stopped coming at Jude’s dinner time and did not start up again in the moments before Connor’s battery died. 

A hundred miles away, at Jude’s house, a movie was about to start. It was Mariana’s turn to choose and she selected the movie _Election_ from her moms’ DVD collection. Initially, Jude found the film dry and lapsed into replaying the conversation, hug and kiss shared with Connor earlier that morning. Over the course of the movie, he became sucked into the story and started to find Tracey Flick in turns repulsive and relatable. He did not try to contact Connor again until he was on his way upstairs to bed and when he did not receive a reply to his goodnight text he made the perfectly reasonable assumption that Connor was already sleeping. The following morning, Jude woke late, as he often did, and had to hurry to be ready in time to catch a ride to school. He only started to worry on arriving for his first class, which was math, when he learned that Connor had not shown up for school. He texted Connor under his desk but Jude was not a master of sleight of hand and he was forced to turn in his phone. When it was returned to him at the end of the lesson there was still no text. This was because the battery on Connor’s phone, currently on one bar, was about to die at the end of the next song, _She’s Lost Control_ by Joy Division. 

Connor’s taste in music was eclectic; a trait inherited from Adam. The tragedy was their estrangement was such that they had not yet discovered this powerful source of mutual understanding. Connor, already asleep, turned his face away from the lights of passing cars. Gradually his head nodded forward and his chin rested on his collarbone. Adam lowered his speed, pulled over and puttered along in the right hand lane. He took his eyes off the road for a second to reach across with his left hand and lay hold of the headphones covering Connor’s ears. The maddening sound that had been leaking from them for the past hour and a half stopped. The interior of the car was mercifully silent at last. The ergonomic padding around the headphones was soft and Connor did not stir as Adam pulled them free and lowered them into the well between the two front seats. The Sennheisers were expensive and Adam did not want Connor’s drool anywhere near them.  

Adam held the wheel again, steering the car back into the fast lane. He, too, was very tired. He pressed his palms against the steering wheel, gripping it with his thumbs to spread and stretch his aching fingers. He rolled his shoulders and strained his jaw wide in a grimace. It helped a little but not enough. He reached into the glove box and retrieved a packet of chewing gum. Stuffing three pieces and chewing vigorously, he considered waking Connor to have someone to talk to. He glanced over. For most of the day Connor’s forehead had been crunched in a baffled frown but in sleep the facial muscles were smoothed out. His mouth was no longer downturned but relaxed into its familiar babyish curve and hanging slightly open. Adam would let Connor sleep and choose the next convenient stopping point to go in search of black coffee. He clapped his hands, quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping son and drummed on the steering wheel. 

Adam chewed to stay awake and, reluctantly, moved back into the slow lane. The trembling, murmurous motion of the expensive SUV reverberated through his legs and spine, soothing his irritability. The road was cutting through the outskirts of a conurbation and the ambient light washing the interior of the car grew brighter. Without the need to overtake, driving required less active engagement. He was not yet ready to think about the events of the past eight hours, and he allowed himself to drift further back. 

Light had flooded out from the hallway of the Adams-Foster residence when Jude answered the door. The boys exchanged private glances, but Jude remained inscrutable, greeting Adam with studied politeness and showing the guests straight into the dining area, where the table was already set. Stef Foster was presiding and tempting smells drifted in from the kitchen. The expected hordes of kids were not in evidence. A dark-haired girl—one of Jude’s older sisters, not the juvenile detention one—was seated on the other side of the table. Next to her was a man around Adam’s age whom he did not recognise. Once rescued by him, Jude trusted Mike Foster and he had been included in the tight circle of people who knew of his relationship with Connor. Mike was introduced as a friend of the family. Adam did the math, familiar with the blended setup from hearing Connor jabber on about his visits to the house. Laser-focused on the outcome he wanted from the evening, he could not have cared less about Mike’s presence, but found him affable enough. Lena materialised, a vision in off-white linen. She casually mother-henned Connor towards an empty seat next to Jude, who was standing bolt upright and ramrod straight behind his chair, arms held slightly away from his body like a Giacometti statue. Connor did not hesitate to comply, keen to put the length of the table between him and his old man. Hurt, Adam frowned, then schooled his expression back to social politeness. Jude was shooting quick glances between Connor, Adam and Lena. The boy appeared to have frozen, he looked like he was made out of clay and it dawned on Adam that Jude, too, feared him. It did not feel good. Lena nodded reassuringly and Jude sat down. He turned to Connor and they started yammering about some video game or other. 

Conversation at dinner ranged over uncontroversial topics. Sports, unsurprisingly, was safe. Mariana waxed lyrical about competitive dance; Mike and Stef asked Adam knowledgeable questions about his college career and Little League coaching; Connor rattled on about soccer with more enthusiasm than he showed for baseball these days; and Jude contributed an item or two about recently-acquired skateboarding moves. 

When Adam got up, insisting on helping clear for dessert, he noticed that the boys’ shins—not quite hidden from view—were touching under the table. Connor’s sneaker-shod foot absently rubbed against Jude’s ankle and kneaded the top of his foot. Adam’s solar plexus tensed and released. He looked away and concentrated on gathering fourteen items of cutlery and seven dinner plates. 

Jude was noticeably more mature than the scrawny kid who had shown up at Adam’s house for sleepovers earlier in the school year, though still scrawny. His voice, like Connor’s, was lowering; his features strengthening and losing their childish roundness. Adam had figured out the day of the batting cages that Jude was a tough kid with character and heart. Smart too, if Connor’s rhapsodic reports were to be believed. That day, witnessing the placement of Jude’s hand on his son’s back, and Connor’s obvious comfort with the caress, Adam’s indifference toward the new kid with whom his son had taken up had blossomed into mistrust and dislike. Soon after that, his well-watered abhorrence and fear of the friendship bore poisonous fruit the moment Jude artlessly lied to Adam’s face at the party. 

Jude appeared to be unperturbed by the contact. His shoulders were no longer around his ears, his elbows on the table took the weight of his upper body and his spine curved in a natural teenage slump. When he opted for ice cream not cream on his apple pie, his voice was animated. At the beginning of the meal, Jude had been throwing daggers at Adam across the table, eyes squinched in mistrust and apprehension; but now, turned to face Connor, his smile shone with a pure radiance. Adam grasped that it was time to revise his earlier opinion, which had been founded in judgment and suspicion. It was becoming abundantly clear that Jude was not going anywhere. The gravity of what it meant that Connor had this connection in his life hit Adam with unexpected force. He was starting, despite himself, to like the kid, if not yet like him for his son. That would take longer but hope sprang eternal.  

When Mariana suggested a board game upstairs, Adam signalled his tacit permission to Stef and Lena without imposing conditions. 

Mike took his leave with a promise to call about a bowling game. Adam was not sure about this half-formed plan and less sure he would be able to get out of it. The parental units retired to the living room. Stef and Lena were on the sofa by the window, sipping mugs of herbal tea. Stef was sitting forward, a bundle of energy barely contained. Lena rested back against the throw cushions, her exquisite eyes cool, measuring. 

Adam’s hands were shaking; he was a little hyped up. This was harder than the first time he stepped foot into his high school gym for baseball tryouts. He sat forward in unconscious imitation of Stef’s posture and launched himself into the fray in the way he would attack a meeting about bad monthly sales figures. “I don’t want to waste your time. I called you because I’m in a bad situation with Connor. This, uh—what to call it— _thing_ that’s happening between our sons, it’s been, I don’t know, a shock, I guess.” 

It was a bad start. 

“Relationship.” Lena, perfectly poised, sipped her tea.

“Sorry, what?”

It was not her intention to give this untaught, suffering man a hard time, but it was not in her nature to let him off the hook either. She pushed a little. “Jude and Connor are boyfriends. What would you call it?” Her shrewd eyes flashed, challenging him. Adam took a gulp from his own cup, which scalded his oesophagus on the way down. He set it on the floor.  

“You see the problem. I keep putting my foot in it with Connor. Like that.” Adam wanted these impressive women to see the depth of his love for his son and his fear of losing his trust forever. He held out his hands, palms upwards in supplication. 

“You were with Connor in the hospital every day, yes?” Stef’s voice was musing, offhand. 

“What’s your point?” 

Lena chipped in, kinder than before. “Connor knows you love him, Adam.”  

Tears pricked his eyelids. Adam had cried more over the last few weeks than in the past ten years. He pushed his palms into his eyes, rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head. “I’ve hurt him though,” he said, his voice muffled with the effort of preventing a sob tearing from his lips. Stef sprang forward, sat by him on the squashy sofa, moved his tea to a safer spot. Lena unfurled her body and in one fluid movement grabbed a box of tissues from the coffee table and waved it under Adam’s nose. 

The ice was broken. Over the course of the next hour, they all sipped tea and began the work of establishing an acquaintance. Gradually Adam’s opaque fears about Connor’s future began to shrink to a manageable size and gain clarity in the glowing brightness of the Adams-Foster living-room. Stef and Lena did not minimise or brush away Adam’s concerns, which were remarkably commonplace but none the less real for that. In summary, he feared that people and society would reject his son. An urge to wrap Connor in a strangling parental embrace gripped him like a vise. Living in a state of hypervigilance made it hard for Adam to think and plan ahead, which was his comfort zone. Attentiveness and waiting patiently for Connor to come to him was what was needed but Adam had few resources for such endeavours.  

He was grief-stricken as well as terrified that he would not be able to protect Connor from other people’s bad reactions and keep him safe. Part of the sadness was that Connor had found it so hard to tell him and had clearly expected the reaction he was met with. The dawning horror was that—despite everything he had trumpeted when Connor was born—what he thought would never happen had happened. Adam had turned into his blustering, mercurial, domineering father whilst his own son, his light-filled boy and boon companion, was afraid of and disgusted by him. The shame of it left Adam’s puffed up sense of self shrivelling like a slug stranded on the sidewalk on a sunny day. 

Certain uglier thoughts and feelings lay percolating in the morass of Adam’s subconscious. These provided a further, rich compost for self-disgust. When he was not focused on the important matter at hand, that is to say, Connor’s well-being, Adam ricocheted between guilt-ridden hand-wringing about whether there was something he might have done or not done, disbelief that it had happened at all, and entirely irrational anger towards Connor for making life so difficult for himself, as though he had somehow chosen to be gay. Such thoughts and feelings bluntly expressed would, he feared, cast him further in the role of irreversible homophobe. Adam’s animal instincts, capable brain and relentless ego preserved him from this level of exposure. In this he did Stef and Lena a disservice. They would have appreciated Adam’s honesty if not his sentiments, gently chided him for wallowing in shame about his feelings, and offered a receptive and non-judgmental environment for him to begin to talk through them.  

Stef and Adam were on the same wavelength about at least one thing. They shared a pressing fear: Connor and Jude had acted out with risky behaviour and it seemed reasonable to worry about them travelling further down a dangerous path. They had different approaches to tackling the problem, however. Adam—embarrassingly out of his depth for a man who had been a parent for some time—offered a diffident suggestion about imposing clear rules of conduct and a stricter curfew on the boys during their summer holiday. For their safety, he added imploringly. Stef and Lena, with characteristic good sense, made no comment on Adam’s lament. Stef bobbed her head in the polite way someone nods when a conversational partner says something they have heard a thousand times before. Lena merely lifted an elegant shoulder in a perfunctory shrug. 

The two women neither dismissed Adam’s contribution nor attempted to placate him. In the interests of establishing a strong alliance they set out to reassure and include, validating his genuine concern and love for Connor. They asked him to try and recall what restrictions had been placed on him as a teenager, and to consider his own response to being coerced. They were careful to convey to Adam their relative lack of anxiety about Jude’s and Connor’s relationship and future lives. Their aim in this was to help him get over his initial shock and move towards the possibility of changing his view of the world. Unlike Adam, they did not mourn the imaginary loss of a frictionless life for any of their children. Adam had pictured for Connor the traditional and predictable route of college (a sports scholarship, like his father before him), then career, wife and maybe a couple of kids. He built a seemingly robust vessel to contain his hopes and dreams: a sturdy skiff on the moderate seas of Adam’s conventional expectations. This was now revealed as a paper-thin coracle lying washed up and shattered on the shoreline, its cargo scattered like so much confetti on the church steps. Stef and Lena were not nursing a bruised self-image and thus were able to focus on the needs of their family, rather than on a misplaced sense of grief. They did not want to make decisions about boundaries and arrangements without first hearing from all concerned parties, nor did they wish to keep Jude and Connor in unwarranted suspense. 

Their flexible plan had been to call the boys downstairs if such a course of action presented itself. However, a quick exchange of glances between Stef and Lena was enough to infer that they were on the same page. Adam was in no emotional state to embark on delicate negotiations: besides, it was getting late. The adults struck an agreement that they would talk to their boys separately in the first instance. They would communicate a generally positive message, with the aim of hammering out the details of a supervised open door policy to apply to both households once the school year was over.

In the meantime, their advice was simple. They recommended to Adam that he make a determined effort to get to know Connor on his own terms. Nothing productive, they were clear, would be accomplished without first establishing an open line of communication and beginning a dialogue. With wisdom acquired through parenting multiple thirteen-year-olds, they pointed out that when children act rejecting, it is easy for mothers and fathers to feel they are not being listened to. Discouraged, they forsake their feeble attempts to deliver guidance, or resort to draconian commands. Stef and Lena advocated finding common ground, allowing Connor to learn about Adam as a person, not an authority figure. Show Connor your complexity, they urged, satisfy his desire to know you. Informing him about the person you were before becoming his dad will act as a guiding light. Keeping secrets buried, they cautioned Adam, is a lost opportunity. 

Stef and Lena said goodbye at the end of the night with a warmer opinion of Adam than might have been expected. Adam left the house with advice and warnings ringing in his ears. It is to his credit he was able to hear them, and took the counsel seriously. 

“Hey, Dad?” Connor woke from his nap refreshed and ravenous. Whilst thinking about the events of the previous night, Adam had steered automatically into the flow of traffic and the car was back in the centre lane bowling along at seventy. “Can we stop for snacks?”

The voice came from far away. There was a rumble under the left front tire. 

“ _Dad!_ ”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Connor’s shout overlapped with the acoustic warning from the car’s internal system. The steering wheel jerked as Adam snapped back to full wakefulness and realigned the car in its lane. The car edged across the lanes of traffic, slowed and came to rest on the right hand shoulder of the freeway. A break in the shoulder line warned of an upcoming exit. The interior light switched itself on as the engine died, plunging everything outside into darkness. 

Connor gripped the dash, his good foot slammed hard into the floor. He could not process what had just happened. The noise and sensation of other vehicles passing them drowned out everything else. An intense whine came closer and closer, getting louder and louder on approach. The car was buffeted by the disturbance of the air as the semi-trailer thundered past. In motion, the SUV aggressively dominated the road. Now it felt as vulnerable as a tin can. 

His heart was hammering. A rushing sound in his head added to the din of the cars roaring past three feet away. His hands and face were numb and everything inside the car was sharply outlined and flat-looking. The feeling of disconnection was familiar; Connor had been having some bad nights recently. He woke gasping for breath, imagining the light summer duvet as a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He would rise out of sleep choking and thrashing around, breaking the paralysis experienced in the nightmares through sheer force of will. Here, now, he was already awake. This was not good enough. He did not have to feel the fear or allow his body to betray him as it did when he was asleep. Control was achievable.  

Connor ran a rapid mental check, an internal pat down of his parts, the way he did when someone tackled him badly on the soccer field. Nagging, persistent throb in his foot apart, all was in order. He slowed his breathing deliberately. He had once observed Jude do this and questioned him about it. He heard Jude’s voice in his head. _Count to five inhale and count to five exhale._ Jude had not explained—because he did not know—that while breath is easily controlled voluntarily, breathing exercises are most effective when people are in a position to access the mental pictures that elicit calming emotions. Right now, Connor was not calm; he was in the grip of genuine fear. 

He was also engaged in an ongoing effort to suppress a recent, significant trauma through willpower alone. This is a crude weapon, yet one that is readily available and thus often targeted at a problem when lighter and smaller artillery might be deployed with greater precision. Since being shot, guns had started jostling for space amongst the various bits of paraphernalia cluttering up Connor’s mental attic. These distressing, intrusive images required further exertions to subdue. When his preferred methods of distraction were unavailable (in order: Jude, video games, loud music, TV sports), during the night for example, they crowded back in full force. 

To cut a long story short, the breathing exercise was futile. Nevertheless, thinking of Jude was comforting. Connor’s heart rate dropped steadily; not as quickly as it would have done before his enforced immobilisation in a hospital bed. He lifted his hands to his face, pressing his palms into his cheeks and smoothing the pads of his fingers over his eyes. The numbness receded. When he took his hands away, the depth and edges of things looked normal again. 

Connor peered over the dash and out the front windshield, trying to see what he could see. Not much, but the exit was close. “Dad?” he said tentatively. Adam was gripping the steering wheel staring straight ahead. Connor put out a hand and touched him on the arm. “You OK?” The arm was unyielding under his hand. He tapped; once, twice. “Hey, Dad!” he said sharply. “We need to get off the freeway. There’s an off ramp right here.”

Adam nodded in a jerky way, took his hands off the steering wheel and put the car into drive. The interior light clicked off and the car was part of its surroundings once again. They left the freeway and drove for no more than five minutes on secondary roads before coming to an upmarket strip mall with shops and fast food restaurants. Connor rapped his dad on the arm again. It felt like an arm this time and not a piece of petrified driftwood. “Dad. Stop here.” He used the light, resolute tone he deployed during soccer games when instructing someone to pass him the ball. 

Adam swung the steering wheel, drove onto the access road and pulled into a parking spot in front of a Victoria’s Secret. 

The engine fell silent and they were in society once again. The soft evening had enticed people out. Families walked along the boulevard, wandered in and out of lighted shops; teenagers hung out in front of the movie theatre and chatted in groups outside pavement cafes. Adam held the key fob limply, making no move to get out of the car. Connor reached over and took the keys. 

His dad bowed his head and rubbed his face. He would _not_ get freaked out. Reaching into his pocket for his phone was not a conscious decision. He checked to see if another text from Jude had come through. The dozen apps left running when he’d fallen asleep had chewed through the remaining battery in no time. The phone was dead.  

 _Fuck_. The curse word sounded clearly in his head. He wanted to yell it at the top of his lungs. His dad’s elbows were on the steering wheel, head resting on folded arms. He was breathing through his nose in shallow breaths. Connor knew, because Jude had told him, that shallow breathing using the intercostal muscles drew only minimal amounts of air into the chest area rather than deep into the lungs via the diaphragm. This was bad, apparently.  

Connor took a long, slow, futile breath and carefully eliminated the impatient edge from his voice. “Let’s walk.” His dad just needed food or something. Everything was going to be fine. He swung his legs out the passenger side and struggled to a standing position, stabilising himself on the door pillar. He reached onto the back seat for his crutches and went around to the driver’s side. His dad got out of the car, moving slowly like an old man. 

The sushi was pretty good. They sat outside under a red umbrella next to some fancy landscaping. He had not realised quite how hungry he was. They ordered a thirty-five piece platter labelled _3-4 people_ and scarfed the lot. Adam gulped two cups of strong black coffee before Connor cut him off by the simple method of pouring a glass of water and pointing at it. His dad picked up the glass without argument, drained it and poured another. 

 There was one spicy tuna roll left on the plate and Connor went after it. Having finished eating, Adam was now staring into space, twiddling a chopstick between his fingers and drumming a tattoo on the table. Had Connor done that, his dad would have slapped his hand and told him to stop acting like a barbarian. It did not cross his mind to say so. As a parent, Adam Stevens was a disciple of the _do as I say, not as I do_ school of education. 

Connor’s supply of masterful bossiness was exhausted; he longed for an adult to tell him what to do next. Help from someone calm and sensible, like one of Jude’s moms, for instance, would be pretty ideal right now. It did cross his mind to suggest calling someone, but the only viable option he came up with was his own mom. He rejected this plan as too high-risk. 

His dad had been wiping his hands on his napkin for what seemed like half an hour but was probably thirty seconds. His knees were jumping under the table, his shoulders rolling like he’d had five cups of coffee, not two, and his eyes were darting around. He was eyeballing everything but had not once looked Connor in the eye since leaving the car. He took out his wallet and signalled for the check with a wavering index finger. Turning the wallet over and over in his hands, he finally spoke. “Okay. Let’s hit the road. Do you need to go to the bathroom first?” Connor was not reassured. He took a deep breath. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…you seem a little out of it.” Connor was torn. He _really_ wanted to be home with his phone charger. He also did not want to get back in the car until his dad started acting like his normal, jerkwad self. His dad stopped fussing with his wallet and finally looked in his direction. His shoulders and knees stilled. 

Connor let out a breath he did not even realise he had been holding. The reprieve was short-lived. Adam’s face was crumpling and when he spoke, his voice was hardly above a whisper. 

“You’re right. I shouldn’t drive right now.” 

What looked suspiciously like tears were gathering in the corners of his dad’s eyes. The relief flooding Connor was replaced with a hot wave of embarrassment. “I’m just gonna—” 

He got to his feet in a sprightlier fashion than he had managed since getting discharged from the hospital. Grabbing his crutches and using one of them as a pointing stick, he gestured towards the open door of the restaurant, then hobbled away as quickly as he could in the direction of the bathroom. He prayed that by the time he got back his dad would have had time to gather his composure. Running away was not Connor’s typical response to someone in pain, but getting away from the sight of his dad melting down in front of him like a little kid was imperative. 

A minute or two later, an obviously tired and unhappy teenage boy on crutches drew curious looks from customers and staff inside the sushi restaurant. Still flustered, not to say furious, Connor had taken a moment to lean his forehead against the cool tiles lining the walls of the passage leading from the bathroom. Treating his dad like a team subordinate in order to get them to safety was one thing, but he could not, would not _comfort_ the bastard. 

 

Adam waited for Connor to return. Adrenaline rush over, he was left with the aftermath. His arms and shoulders were sore from his deathly grip on the steering wheel as he’d driven off the freeway. The crash was on its way and two cups of coffee would do nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looked up, hoping to see Connor on his way back from the bathroom. He did not want his son out of his sight. He wanted him home: safe, intact. Adam looked at his hands, which were still shaking. His self-control was shot to pieces and driving in his current state would be the worst decision he could make. He called over a waiter and settled the check. 

Driving off the road was the inevitable consequence of a mind and body deprived of proper sleep. Adam had slept poorly ever since the worsening of troubles in his marriage and compensated by fuelling on caffeine and self-medicating with liquor. Since Connor had gotten himself shot, Adam had been consumed with impotent rage against a man who, in his view, was unfit to own a gun and had been rewarded for his stupidity by being let off scot-free. Adam’s belief in the second amendment was unshakeable as was his commitment to responsible gun ownership. These were deep-seated values that he had no wish to examine or question. Uninterested in correcting the wider socio-political issues that troubled politicians and artists and other do-gooders, Adam responded by narrowing his focus to what he could safely control. 

The chain of causality was clear in his mind. The kids had acted out: this had directly resulted in his son being shot. What happened afterwards muddled this clarity. Getting the phone call about the shooting was followed not two hours later by Connor telling him he was gay. Logically the two cataclysmic events were not related, but they would forever be linked by association in Adam’s mind. He veered between railing against the owner of the gun and scapegoating the Adams Foster kid: the common denominator in all of his son’s risky behaviour.   

Connor hopped through the door to the restaurant, leaning on his crutches lopsidedly. If he was fatigued, the boy was completely spent. A course of action presented itself and Adam was certain it was the correct thing to do. Consulting his son did not cross his mind. He got to his feet.

“Wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes with the car.”


	12. Chapter 12

Hugely relieved that his dad was functioning again, Connor leaned his crutches against the table and sank into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and rubbing at the sore spots under his arms. Some minutes later, he found himself involuntarily checked into a twin room at a nearby Day’s Inn. 

Connor threw his backpack into a corner and collapsed onto the bed nearest the bathroom. He watched his father tip-toeing around, staying quiet in the hope that he would soon fall asleep. He was going to have a long wait. Of course his dad would assume he was cranky out of tiredness. Used to having his feelings invalidated, an entire arsenal of passive and aggressive strategies of resistance was at Connor’s disposal. Nursing a significant and, in his opinion, justified grievance, he brooded. 

Adam sifted through a plastic bag of sundries picked up from a pharmacy and put a two litre bottle of water into the fridge. He went into the bathroom and Connor heard the shower come on. 

When Adam emerged from the bathroom, Connor was still sitting up in bed, arms crossed over his chest, hands once again tucked into his armpits, radiating impatient annoyance. Jeans, socks and the boot lay discarded on the floor next to the bed and his bandaged foot was sticking out of the covers. 

Adam went back over to the fridge and started to investigate. Connor mentally rehearsed the excuses. The whisky was to relax, make it possible for him to fall asleep. 

Passing his phone from hand to hand, a half-brick poised to throw, sleep was the furthest thing from Connor’s mind. Spoiling for a fight and unable to restrain himself, he allowed contempt to creep into his voice. “Can I get something then? How about a beer?” Charge set, he tensed, waiting for the detonation.  

The fridge door swung closed with infinite slowness. Adam turned. When he spoke, his voice was level, but that was no guide. “If you’re not going to sleep when you clearly need it, that’s your choice.” 

Connor stared him down. He watched the frown settle in, thunderclouds gathering. Over the past few months, he had grown used to reading bafflement and irritation in the eyes looking at him across the dinner table or the batting cage. In the old days, now and then, he would catch his dad smiling in his direction. Adam Stevens was not a demonstrative parent, and his son hoarded crumbs of affection unconditional on achievements in grades and sports. Connor felt his jaw start to work and the beginning of a tell-tale tremble in his upper lip. Jesus fucking Christ. He would _not_ cry. 

He squinted, gritting his teeth. Predictably his dad was the one to snap first. “What’s up with you, for crying out loud? You’ve been sulking all day.” The blood rush swept over him. His sense of injustice was acute. 

“I already _told_ you.” He struggled to keep his voice low, flinching away and shrinking against the padded headboard. His dad was way over by the fridge, but still. “My phone is dead. We’re stuck here…” He did not quite have the balls to say _because you weren’t fit to drive._ Ever since the freeway, he had done his best. For a reward, he’d been dumped in a depressing hotel room for the night with his useless fucking father. He was lonely, miserable, and cut off from his only source of comfort. He took a breath and enunciated his next words one at a time in an attempt to maintain control. Knowing in advance what the reaction would be, he went ahead and said it anyway. “We’re stuck here and I can’t even call or text Jude.” 

“That’s it?” 

Adam opened the fridge door again, for no other reason than to slam it shut. Miniature bottles and soda cans rattled in their door slots. Connor cringed again. The sour tone in his dad’s voice at the mention of Jude’s name shrivelled him every single time. He wondered when he would get used to it. “That’s what’s up your ass? You’re…” 

Adam did not complete the sentence, but there was no need. Connor had plenty of options to choose from. _Being ridiculous_ was the first, heard in the hospital, the night of the shooting. _Just a kid_ was the second. _Out of your goddamned mind_ , at full volume, had been the last thing levelled at him before his dad stormed out in order to lie to Vice-principal Adams Foster about the TP-ing and the alcohol and everything being Jude’s fault. 

Adam was pacing the floor space between the twin beds and the wall, flexing and unflexing his fists. Connor was equally tense but had nowhere to go. He was trapped on the bed, disarmed but not yet helpless in the face of his dad’s intensity. 

The pacing slowed. Adam moved to sit on the other bed. “I told you before, Connor. I’m trying here.” 

Scenting victory, Connor straightened his back, digging his fists into the mattress. His resentment, built up over weeks and months, was mounting like a tidal wave and the chink in his dad’s defences opened the floodgates. Well-practiced in dodging verbal—and occasional physical—blows, Connor Stevens did not play the victim. Reacting with paralysis in the face of attack was a foreign concept to him. He drew instinctively on the tactics of the blame game, observed in his parents’ fraught, painful tussles over domestic minutiae, from his father’s exacting demands for punctual meals to his mother’s nervous driving. These fitful rows were characterised by explosions on the one side and attempts at pacification on the other. Possessing his mother’s easy-going temperament and exposed to gentle, civilising influences at school, Connor preferred not to strike the first blow. Adam had taught him well, however, and when cornered he played to win. 

To that end, Connor leaned forward in bed and prepared to unleash in his father’s direction a controlled blast of righteous anger, albeit mixed with a dose of persecutory glee. He opened with, “I wish you could hear yourself right now.”

Adam recoiled. Then, hands twitching, he squared up to fight. “What does _that_ mean?”

Connor’s voice rose, mimicking his dad’s tone of sour contempt. “You’re trying. Well, don’t bother. I’m here, _Dad_ , right in front of you. Ignore what’s staring you in the face, but it makes no difference to me. Not any more. I’m gay and Jude is my boyfriend.” 

“Yeah. I know.” Adam spoke quietly. His hands dropped by his sides and he lowered his eyes to the carpet. Almost, he sounded hurt. 

Connor did not weaken. He refused to be shut down again, as on the night of the shooting. “Yeah, right. If I keep my mouth shut, don’t mention his name in front of you. You’ve never once asked a single question about him. About _me_.”

“What’s there to say? Isn’t it enough that I’ve accepted the two of you are together?”

This was utter crap. Power generated by the satisfaction of finally calling his dad on his bullshit surged through him. “You haven’t accepted anything.”

“The two of you see each other every day. I’ve been to his house to talk with his parents. We’re making arrangements so you can spend time together. What more do you want?” 

For the first time, he faltered. When put that way, his dad’s behaviour sounded reasonable. In Adam and Connor’s arguments, logic and reason were the big guns. But he could not escape the feeling that he deserved better. Dad was harsh to him sometimes, pushing him to excel and riding him when he failed to lived up to expectations. He knew that what set him apart from his peers was the time his dad spent caring for him, and not because he had to. As far back as Connor could remember, Adam put him before anything else. They spent their free time just being together, enjoying each other’s company. The boy worshipped the ground the man stepped on and vice versa. Until ten months ago, neither had doubted the depth and permanence of their mutual respect and love. Then, a few weeks into seventh grade, Connor met Jude, and everything changed. 

“I don’t know.” The babyish whine echoed through the room. He was on the ropes. He wanted his dad to understand why it mattered that he could not call and say goodnight to his boyfriend. Why he could not think about anything else, why sleep seemed a ridiculous impossibility without it. 

He rallied. “What does it even mean to you—that Jude’s my boyfriend?”

Adam shrugged, upturning and spreading his palms. “It’s hard for me, son. I can’t pretend otherwise. I know I’m not supposed to say this, it’s not politically correct or whatever, but—your feelings could change as you get older. I don’t understand why you feel like you have to make this kind of decision now. As for the boy, it seems to me that you’re certainly too young to know what it means to be in a relationship with anyone.” 

Connor wriggled on the bed in frustration, near to being silenced again. He had no answers. All he had were his feelings and all he wanted was his dad to recognise and acknowledge them. 

Adam pushed. “You might think you feel something for this kid, but why the need to call yourselves boyfriends?”

Connor did have an answer for that one. He brought it out and presented it to his dad. “You didn’t say any of that when I called Daria my girlfriend.” 

The uncomfortable truth lay there between them like a dead mouse on the carpet. 

Adam got up and opened the fridge. Pulling out the bottle of water, he poured two glasses and handed one over. Connor gulped it gratefully. Tiredness was pushing at the edges of his senses and dulling his brain. His eyes were gritty, his head ached. 

“OK, go ahead. Tell me what it means that this kid is your—your boyfriend.”

 “His name is _Jude_. Jeez, Dad.”

“Do not curse at me, young man.”

Connor quickly turned his face to the wall, not wanting his father to see the tiny, exultant smirk creeping across his face. Bluster meant that he was winning. Time to move in for the kill. Composing himself, he turned his head back. That was Adam Stevens’ own rule. _Look me in the eye and say that to me._ Time to find out whether he held himself to the rigorous standard insisted upon for wife and son.

“For one thing,” Connor said, spacing out his words so that they fell carefully, deliberately, stones into a pond, “it means we do boyfriend stuff. You know, with each other.” 

Adam flinched and frowned and fussed with the tie of his bathrobe. His eyes darted around the room, as if the ugly pictures of flowers on the walls and the water stain on the ceiling were endowed with the potency to change reality. When he looked at Connor once again, they would see eye to eye, and he would no longer be the father of a gay son. 

In that moment, Connor’s anger stopped him from feeling the hurt of his dad failing, yet again, the test of being a halfway decent person. He turned the knife. “It means I _like_ it. So, deal with it, or don’t, but don’t give me that _I’m trying_ crap. Accept who I am and who I like, or don’t. I don’t care anymore.” A note of bravado to end on, but the crack in his voice betrayed him. He hoped the words had power to wound and banked on his dad caring too.  

Adam drained the rest of his glass. Connor waited and watched the adam’s apple bobbing above the V of the hotel bathrobe. “Listen to me. You are being ridiculous.” The voice was as harsh as ever and Connor’s anger flared in response. 

He pushed his fists into his eye sockets. _No. I’m not_. 

“You need to get a grip.” The sound of his dad’s voice droned on, cutting, inexorable. “If that’s what being in a relationship means to you, then definitely you are too young to be in one.” 

The sneering tone was unbearable. Connor would not stand for it. Keeping his hands covering his eyes, he opened his mouth and bellowed like a little kid. 

“Jude’s my friend, or did you forget? My best friend. We’ve been hanging out ever since he came to Anchor Beach. It means I like _him_. Like that. Go on believing I don’t know how I feel because I’m thirteen, but you’re not going to make me feel bad. It’s friendship plus that, not one or the other. I don’t need time to figure myself out. He’s my boyfriend and we like each other, and it started ages ago.” 

“What do you mean, _started_?” 

“I told you already.” Connor forced his hands away from his face. There had been only one more question in the hospital, after he had blurted out the truth _._ It was always the same question, asked in the same way, with his dad turning livid and thundering _And how long has this been going on?_

In predictable fashion, his dad zeroed in on irrelevancies. “That bullshit story about the tent,” he muttered. “Pack of goddamned lies.” 

At the implication, Connor’s anger liquefied into rage. “ _Stop_ blaming Jude!” he yelled. Shouting was the strategy of the already defeated. He clamped his hands back over his face, pushing his fingers into his eye sockets in an attempt to stop the tears from falling. He pressed his lips together but it was no use. A sob escaped, and he abandoned any attempt at self-control. 

His dad had beaten him. Again.  


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have decided not to be precious about this very important chapter - oh, who am I kidding, they're all important - perfectionism is my kryptonite and fanfic is my happy place, so posting without re-reading. I need this to give me oomph for ch14 which is proving a bit sticky and un-fun right now.

_Oh, for Pete’s sake_. Adam got up and turned his back on his weeping son. Walking over to the fridge, he busied himself mixing whisky and water. He could not bear to see the boy cry and it made him furious. An insistent voice in his head-his wife's-telling him to not to stop Connor’s tears held him back from snapping the words out loud. Self-justification kicked in: he had not brought up his son to lie and sneak around. The Adams Foster brat had some kind of hold over him, so much was obvious. Was he being too hasty, giving credence to this relationship?

He leaned on the fridge, gulping his drink and frowning at his son, still sniffling and rubbing at his eyes. An image came to mind; picking Connor up from Daria’s house, sitting in the car as the two kids said their goodbyes on the front porch. He had grown bored of waiting for them to stop necking and tooted the car horn. Connor getting into the car, blushing, with the same triumphant expression plastered on his face as when he scored the winning goal at soccer. He seized on the memory. “Besides, why wouldn’t I think you might be…confused? I saw you with that girl.”

Connor hurled himself onto his side, faced the wall and howled. Shocked, Adam moved quickly. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. He rubbed Connor’s back: long, slow strokes, soothing with touch as he would an animal in pain. “Hey,” he said, after a long interval. “Come on. It’s not that bad. It’s just a question.”

The horrible sound died down. Between sobs, Connor hiccoughed, “I’m not _confused_.”

“Well. I am. You were all over each other. If you want me to understand, explain it to me.” 

“I hardly knew her when she asked me. She’s pretty, and she liked me.”

“It was all for show?”

Connor’s shoulder blade trembled, and Adam patted, reassuringly, he hoped. A final shuddering breath, and Connor spoke. “I don’t know. I guess I knew I didn’t, you know, _like_ like her. I thought maybe…”

“You weren’t trying to figure things out?

“N—no. Not by then. No.” Connor disintegrated again. “It was wrong, I guess, what I did, wasn’t it?”

Adam took his hand away, so that Connor would not feel the tension in his arm. He was getting incensed again and this time knew the correct target for his anger. The boy had more or less deliberately engineered the entire thing and ended up walking into a dangerous situation, nearly getting himself killed as a result. A pack of dumbass thirteen-year-olds could not be held responsible, nor even a parent without the sense to switch on a light before loosing off a firearm.

He put his hand back on his son’s shoulder. He rested it there, waiting for the crying to cease. A second gulp of his drink and the familiar sense of calm kicked in as the buzz hit, spreading through his blood vessels. Adam Stevens’ best quality was his ability to weigh up all the information, reason his way to a conclusion and stick to it. Another was a strict sense of fairness when rendering judgement. “It’s okay, son,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” Saying it felt good, so he said it twice. “None of this is your fault.”

Connor turned, dived into his father’s waiting arms. He buried his head and bawled again: healing tears. Adam let him exhaust himself, the collar of his bathrobe growing damp with runny snot.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from the bathroom and sat on the other bed, sipping, while Connor blew his nose. Besides his face being a ruddy mess, the boy looked happier than he had all day. “Can I just say one thing, dad? About—about me and Jude?”

Adam braced and looked his gay son in the eye. “Sure,” he said, hoping he did not sound fake.

“It’s completely different when I’m with him.” Not embarrassed, or disingenuous, but resolute; the Connor that Adam knew. “Compared to Daria, I mean. Not even close.”

A thought too big and, frankly, too terrifying to look at flashed across Adam’s mind, and he tensed. His eyes flickered to the carpet, missing the shadow of fear and disappointment creeping back into Connor’s eyes. Sliding down his pillows a few inches, the boy turned his face to the wall again.

Adam spotted the danger signs. He breathed, sipped, and asked, as delicately as possible, “What exactly do you mean by _with_?”

 

Connor shrugged, staring at the wall. “Nothing.” His sinuses were stuffed up, and his head felt like he was under water. Yet again, his dad had tricked him with one of his sporadic attempts to make nice. He would never listen to anything real. All that mattered was maintaining control and forcing everyone around him to fall into line.

Ice clinked in the bottom of his dad’s glass. “Connor, you can’t do this every time I ask you a question.” He sounded impatient, but not mad.

Curiosity piqued, Connor looked up, as his dad continued. “You wanted to spill your guts a minute ago, so I’m asking. Tell me what you meant.”

He did not know where to start. Connor did not find it easy to remember how things were before Jude. After the shooting and coming out to his dad, he wanted to be happy. The recent past was not a happy place, but a place of secrets and anxieties and keeping up appearances. Daria, in particular, was not a comfortable memory. That night had gotten out of hand and it had been a little scary even before Taylor’s house—no, he did not want to think about that. He wanted to think about the fact that Jude was his boyfriend, that his mom was happy for him and that even his dad was maybe starting to come around. That was what mattered.

He still had to answer the question. Now he was allowed to in the eyes of the world, Connor enjoyed thinking about the difference of being with Jude. Nothing compared to the relief from the tension of constantly acting a part. It was the best feeling in the world. After months of holding on, trying to stop himself from flying apart into fragments, he was starting to feel whole again. Wanting the whole sorry business of putting himself back together over and done with, nonetheless, certain confusions, doubts, and guilty feelings lingered. The physical side of his relationship with Daria had not been nearly as easy to keep in check as he had planned. He could not talk to Jude about Daria. Was it possible his dad could help him make sense of things? It had to be worth a try.

“Daria. She—she kind of took the lead on everything.” That seemed like a good enough place to start, because it was true. Whether it was the movies, or where to eat, she always had an opinion. Connor had not let her push him into anything, but at times it had not been easy. That night, after the TP-ing, Daria had been pestering him to stay longer, not go back and find Jude and Taylor.

 _They’re fine, Connor. Leave them to it. Don’t you want to—you know? Like we talked about._ He had fobbed her off, like always. He shivered with the effort of pushing the memory back in its box. The lid would not go back on. Daria was too big, too loud and insistent to be contained.

His dad was waiting for him to continue.

“She kept asking me if we were going to have—” His voice dropped to a muttered whisper. “You know— _sex_.”

Connor tensed, ready for another screaming bout.

Notions he had about one day doing the deed—usually when he overheard his team mates running their mouths like the jackasses most of them were—he was in the habit of putting in the category of stuff to think about later. Exciting impressions of what his first time might involve absolutely, definitely did not feature—had never even once included—losing his virginity with Daria, or any girl for that matter. Somewhat milder exploratory fantasies consumed more of his time. Until fairly recently, these, too, had been kind of foggy and indistinct. Kissing Jude on the camping trip had been revelatory. The endless, insipid tedium of making out with Daria had thrown things into still sharper relief. Now, at long last, he was in a position to insert his preferred source material into his personal showreel. Whenever he wanted, he could let himself go and just feel, free of guilt and confusion. This liberation came with a cost. With each passing day, Connor’s waking dreams were getting increasingly vivid, intruding more frequently than he could reasonably handle in addition to his other responsibilities. He was kind of hoping that in time these Blu Ray quality daydreams would settle down and reduce in intensity, ideally before the beginning of eighth grade and the new soccer season. Somehow, he doubted it.

Coming back to the present, he refocused on his father’s face, a little surprised that he was not in the middle of being yelled at.

Adam was staring at him, wide-eyed. “But—” he said slowly. “You’re thirteen years old.” He frowned. “Did you feel pressured?”

The question caught Connor by surprise. He had expected his dad to rant and rave and then start lecturing him about this sort of thing being exactly why he should not be dating anyone.

“Not really.” He thought back. “Maybe a little.” If he had not been shot, was there a chance—? _No_. He would have kept stalling. When they were making out in the bushes, all he had been thinking about was how he had not taken the risk of sneaking out in the middle of night for freaking _Daria_ and how much he wanted to be making out with Jude instead.

“So what about now?”

“What do you mean?”

Adam hesitated. “Jude.”

“What about him and me?”

“You said it’s different. Where are you and he with…” His dad's gaze was fixed once again on the nasty, brown carpet. He ground to a halt, circling his right hand in a vague but excruciatingly descriptive gesture. 

Connor just managed to stop himself from diving under the bedclothes in horror. “Uhm,” he said, stalling for time.

When he had been kissing Daria, he had been reliving recent kisses in Jude’s room and feeling frustrated and impatient to find him again. The girl’s dimpled, rounded arms around his neck, the softness of her chest squashed up against him, did nothing for Connor. He _wanted_ Jude’s thin, lean-muscled arms around him, Jude’s chest flat against his, nothing between them, Jude’s fingers digging into his waist. Connor thought about Jude when he was with Daria, and he thought about him now. He thought about how much he thought about Jude and how he wanted to be with him, if not actually _with_ him, pretty much all the time; it had been the same ever since the tent, and now they were boyfriends he was even more stupidly stuck on Jude, Jude, Jude. The repetitive nature of his thoughts made it kind of hard to get anything done and he could not bring himself to care. Putting it down to being on crutches, Connor let himself wallow in the delight and relief of it all. When he was back on his feet, he might be able to think about something other than video games and loud music and the burn of Jude’s lips on his, tongues gliding over and under, learning and pushing and fighting until they had to break, gasping for air and laughing in amazement. Three times in the past week, they had barely made it to class before first bell. He did not think he needed to tell his dad any of this.

“It’s private,” he said flatly. “You don’t have to worry. We haven’t done anything wrong and we’re not about to.”

“Jesus. Thank Christ for that.” His dad must be pretty far gone to be cursing in front of him. “Just tell me one thing.” Adam looked sharply at Connor. “Are we talking like what I saw on the steps of the girl’s house?”

Connor flashed on an image of the two of them in Jude’s bedroom that first afternoon. They had kissed for what felt like hours, breathlessly, using tongues for the first time. The feel of skin against skin as he pushed up Jude’s t-shirt, the feel of Jude’s hands on his back and stomach, fingers straying close to his waistband. They would stop, he promised himself, go slower, not seize every opportunity presented to them. There was plenty of time for…all that. He would talk to Jude.

He pressed his lips together and looked his father straight in the eye. “Yeah.”

Adam held his son’s gaze and sipped his whisky.

 

Adam went to get ice while he considered how to handle this unforeseen complication. He knew his son, and the boy had just lied to his face. But to what extent?

Earlier that evening, in the car as he navigated across the lanes of traffic, Adam’s heart had pounded fit to burst from his chest. Now, he felt the hammering start up again. He could not do this: he was not equipped: it was all happening way, way too fast. Could he trust Connor? He wanted to, had never had reason not to, until this Jude kid came along. A good kid, sure, but for fuck’s sake, if not for him, perhaps Adam would have had more time. More time playing baseball with his son, more time to adjust to a home with just the two of them rattling around, two lone peas in a can.

Yeah. He needed just a little time to get himself right. He would welcome his son’s _boyfriend_ into his home, where he could keep a weather eye on them. He was in no way comfortable with the idea of his son losing his virginity, not with _anyone_ , he told himself firmly. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to broach the subject of gay sex with his thirteen-year-old son. Maybe he would never be ready. Jesus. What the hell was his life turning into? For the second time in two weeks, he was hit with an almost overwhelming impulse to dial Lena Adams Foster’s number and beg for rescue like a little kid instead of a grown-ass man.

Anything touchy-feely was a close book to Adam. He had fumbled his way through his early relationships, hurting various girlfriends in the process and himself most of all. Possessing scant knowledge of his own heart, he attributed this to inaccurate information and misguided teaching. In high school and college he coasted on a combination of youthful, ruggedly masculine good looks, superficial charm and sporting prowess. Like attracting like, this persona caught the attention of the type of women he considered suitable to date. As an adult, he had not even begun to make sense of the failure of his marriage, locked in an unending spiral of blame and counter-blame.

Deep in thought, he made his way slowly towards the ice machine at the end of the corridor. The air conditioning was out in the communal areas of the hotel and stale smells of mildew and cigarette smoke hung in the air. He reached the machine, hit the button and started filling up the bucket. He stopped half-way through and leaned against the machine. Grabbing a chunk of ice, he rubbed it on his forehead and over the back of his neck. The cooling sensation was soothing and his troubled mood began to lift. He was, in one respect, a good father or, at least, good enough. He loved his boy and was determined to do right by him. Connor, like every other young kid in the history of the world ever, had asked his share of questions and at the appropriate time Adam had taken opportunities offered for teachable moments. Having no wish to leave his child ignorant and exposed, as he had been, he bit the bullet and communicated necessary facts, despite inhibitions rooted in trite, bourgeois self-consciousness. When his son invited a girl to the house, he steeled himself for a conversation about responsibilities and precautions at some future point. In his fantasy parallel universe—the one where Connor was straight—this talk likely would have occurred and ended quickly in the traditional atmosphere of embarrassed silence on both sides. Events had overtaken him and Adam was starting to become aware of the deep chasm in his understanding.

The overwhelming temptation was to shelve the conversation for another day. That would be a cop out, he decided. This was the opening for dialogue he had been advised to seek. If he could not give Connor _the talk_ , he would take the opportunity to reconnect with his son instead. This resolved, he padded back down the corridor to the room, half-hoping to find Connor already asleep.

He was awake and cramming handfuls of M&Ms from the minibar. Adam dumped the ice on top of the fridge. He tightened the belt of his robe and waited until Connor broke off stuffing his face and looked up. “Put down the bag, please.” There was another pause while Connor did as he was told. “I’m not going to pry into your private business.” Connor screwed up his face, his eyes wandering to the bag of chocolate next to him. “I do want to talk to you about some stuff. You don’t have to say anything, just listen.”


	14. Chapter 14

Getting comfortable, Connor shuffled his butt around in bed before resting back against his pillows, squinting across the distance between them. Keyed up, heart racing a little, Adam sat down on the other bed and cleared his throat. 

A captive audience, for now. Ignoring a twang of nervousness in his stomach, he forged ahead. “I know I’m always banging on about wanting you to stay a kid as long as you can.” It was a poor opener. With no follow up, Adam floundered. 

Eyes resting on the bag of chocolate again, Connor switched off. For once, Adam did not indulge his impulse to overreact. Taking a breath, he softened his voice. “Gimme a minute here.” 

Attention caught, Connor pushed the bag of candy out of sight. Half-smiling at the show of respect, Adam relaxed. A good kid. Kind, but no pushover. Steady, with a head on his shoulders. Like his mom at her best, not his father, at his volatile worst. 

Folding his hands in his lap, Connor composed his features into a listening expression. Adam stumbled on. “Not saying I remember being your age. When you’re a kid, you think you’ll remember things just the way they happened. Some of it sticks around, but not much, not really. How you felt at the time—you remember that.” 

A bored frown. Adam was at a loss. “Make any sense?” he prodded. 

“Sure…” The _whatever_ could be inferred. 

Adam rallied. “You gotta make mistakes, take some risks, but be smart about it.” The words started flowing, it was like he was talking to himself. “Make good memories. You don’t want to mess up too many times, end up mad at yourself, because you weren’t smart.”

“I _am_ smart, Dad. Jeez.” 

Connor snatched the bag from under his pillow, emptied a stream of candy into his mouth. The tone—not to mention flagrant disobedience—took Adam by surprise. “Watch your mouth,” he bristled. 

At school, when thunder descended to cloud Connor’s mild demeanour, his classmates knew to give him a wide berth. 

Adam trod carefully. “I’m just saying, there’s…” His brain fogged with anxiety as he groped for the words to get his point across. Something about stuff he wished he remembered, and other stuff he couldn’t forget, however much he wanted to. Over the years, he’d done an excellent job of locking away things he did not want to think about. The habit of not talking about himself—not to his buddies and not to his wife—was ingrained. He talked, sure, sticking to the script he assumed was expected of him. Work, sports, the day to day minutiae of raising a kid and building a solid future: back up college fund for the boy, retirement fund for the two of them. 

Connor’s hands, folded now in the crook of his elbows, curled into impatient fists. Self-pity pricking the back of his eyeballs, Adam snapped. “I’ll tell you. But first I’m getting myself another drink, and spare me the judge-y looks.” Stupid, the idea he could get through to his son, get him to listen. He deserved a little time to himself, a breathing space to decompress, check his email. “And then it’s time you went to sleep,” he said firmly.

“But—”

“What?”

“Nothing, _Dad_.” 

Face full of silent, weary contempt, Connor stared into space. Adam shrank from the hostility being beamed across the narrow space between the two beds. “Hey!” he protested. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means, you get what you need.” Pushing the comforter back, Connor muttered, half under his breath, “Like you always do.” 

Adam moved to offer assistance, but Connor waved him away with an angry gesture. Swinging his legs out of bed, he dragged himself upright. Good leg taking the strain, he hopped his way to the bathroom, clinging onto available surfaces. The toilet flushed and Adam heard the sink running. 

Connor reappeared, leaning against the door jamb. Cheeks hollow and lines of recent pain still etched around the mouth, he appeared both older and younger than his thirteen years. Close to tears, he clutched the handle for support. Adam shrugged helplessly, at a loss to understand. “This is still about the phone, isn’t it? Connor, it’s one night.” 

The set of the mouth indicated refusal to beg. 

Adam considered himself stern stuff, but something in his son’s expression moved him. “Besides,” he added, more gently, “it’s too late to call now.”

There went the jaw as Connor struggled for control. Ancient parental instincts kicking into high gear, Adam was left gasping, a twinge in his chest, as memories of earlier days swamped him. His wife and their old joke about how somehow they’d made a child who turned out to be the perfect mascot for the business. A simple picture of domestic happiness: clients over for dinner on a Saturday night, the women cooing as the men looked on indulgently. Later, guests gone and Connor sound asleep upstairs, they’d polish off the rest of the wine, laughing together about how their little boy’s face could melt a heart of stone.

Connor knuckled tired eyes and shifted his weight, staggering a little. This dependency on the Adams Foster kid worried him. On high alert to avert an imminent meltdown, Adam took a step forward. “Just tell me why it’s so important.” 

Connor whispered, “His brother and sister were _just_ in a car accident.” 

Puzzlement deepening, Adam bit down on his impatience and spoke softly in return. “Everyone was okay, though, right?”  

“It’s just—he could be worried, or something. When he doesn’t hear from me.” 

Leaning forward, Adam winced at the final, mumbled words. “I don’t expect you to get it.” 

Turning away, Connor leaned harder against the door to the bathroom. In truth, Adam did _not_ get it: the reaction seemed out of all proportion. Impatience crept back into his voice. “But he knows you’re with me.”   

“I guess.” Connor’s breath came in pants and he stood on a leg now visibly trembling. Adam leapt to his feet. Shoulders shaking, Connor’s hand slipped from its death grip on the door handle. 

 

Striding across the room, he reached him a second too late. Connor crashed to the tiled floor of the hotel bathroom. Clutching at the sleeve of Adam’s bathrobe, the boy’s cramped fingers could not maintain purchase. 

Adam helped him regain his footing. Taking as much weight off the good leg as possible, he threw an arm around his son and, together, they struggled back over to the bed. He tucked him in, smoothed damp hair off his sweaty forehead. 

Connor’s eyes were leaking tears. Despite his misgivings, Adam yielded. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll text his mother.”

“Okay. Thanks.” The painful, rasping breaths slowed, but the tears dribbled faster into the pillow and Connor made no attempt to wipe them away. 

The penny finally dropped. His son wanted to talk to his friend— _boyfriend_ —not to reassure, but to be reassured. He wanted— _needed_ —comfort following their scare in the car: comfort Adam had failed to provide. Reacting the way he had been taught, calm demeanour masking his terror, the boy had controlled the situation without a second thought. Busy beating himself up, Connor’s feelings had not crossed Adam’s mind. 

Now, he was patting at the comforter, looking for his sweets. Handing them over and reaching for his phone, Adam quickly sent a text to Lena explaining they were held up and would be late getting back in the morning. He grabbed toilet paper from the bathroom, sat down on the edge of the bed. Taking the offered bundle, Connor scrubbed at his eyes. 

Time now to broach the subject pushed to the top of the agenda and make amends. “Hey, uh, thanks for taking care of me back there, in the car. You stepped up.” 

In the middle of blowing his nose, Connor’s eyes flew up. “What happened to you?” 

Holding his son’s gaze with difficulty, Adam forced out the words. “You saw what happened. I fell asleep at the wheel.” 

Connor threw the wad of tissue onto the floor and tipped M&Ms into his palm. “Yeah. I meant…after.”  

He could not stay by his son’s side. Getting up, he pulled the comforter off the other bed, leaving only the sheet. Punching the pillows into a comfortable shape, he climbed into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. Unable to put it off any longer, he dredged up the truth. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I guess it finally caught up with me.” 

Munching chocolate, Connor took this in. Adam turned onto his side, and they faced each other. The embarrassed sympathy written all over his son’s face made his neck prickle. Still, easier to meet his eyes than act like a spineless dick. 

The rhythmic chewing slowed. Adam spoke deliberately, giving the words their full weight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry for scaring you like that. And for flaking on you.” 

Connor’s eyes shone with affection, kindness. It was intolerable. “Dad, it’s okay.” Then, repeated, a mantra, “We’re okay.” 

Adam suppressed the impulse to argue. Breast-beating would not help anyone. Still, the boy was too ready to forgive and forget. Grudgingly, he nodded, accepted that his thirteen-year-old son was taking care of him, not for the first time that day. "Yeah. We are."

Picking up a tumbler from the nightstand, Connor held it out. “Can I get a Coke?” 

“No.” 

“But I’m thirsty.” Connor stuck out his lower lip. Adam did not appreciate the performance. 

“You can have anything without caffeine.” He grabbed two sodas from the fridge. The room bill was going to be astronomical. 

“Um.” Connor gulped his soda. “I haven’t been sleeping great either. Since the accident.”

Tempted to pull him up on his misuse of the word, Adam concentrated instead on the sickly sweet liquid trickling down his throat. His son was confiding in him: he would not get sidetracked. 

“Well, it makes sense.” Focusing his mind on practicalities and putting himself in his son’s shoes, he came up with the perfect form of comforting words. “Painkillers mess with your sleep cycle.” 

“You think that’s what it is? I’ll sleep again when my foot’s healed?” 

“Sure.” Adam said, in his heartiest tone of voice. A frown flickered across Connor’s face. Swigging at his can of Sprite, Adam missed it.

“Okay.” Draining his soda can, Connor pitched it into the wastebasket across the room. Sliding down under the covers, he poured the last of the candy into his mouth. 

Deciding he did not need another whisky after all, Adam congratulated himself on a job well done.

His complacency, as usual, was misplaced. 


	15. Chapter 15

Adam’s empty can arced across the room, landing in the trash. “Go on then,” Connor said. “I’m listening.” Jude was almost certainly fast asleep by now. 

“Still not sleepy?” 

 If he closed his eyes, Connor would be asleep in under a minute. “Nope.”

Legs sticking out of the fluffy white bathrobe, his father was approachable for once. But he had other reasons for delaying the inevitability of sleep. A story might hold the dreams at bay, stave off the worst of the nightmares. Without such distraction, Connor, twitchy with exhaustion, sensed he was in for a rough night. 

“It’s not exactly a bedtime story.” 

Hit with the familiar wave of disappointment, Connor wanted a fucking bedtime story. In the past, out fishing or hiking, Adam would loosen up and start telling yarns. Connor loved the stories about being a kid growing up in the country. To be fair, he could take or leave the minute accounts of planting cycles, renovations to farm buildings, exhaustive elaborations of the precise technicalities of putting in new fences around the property. Still, he hung on every word, in hopes of some telling detail that would unlock the mystery of his dad. Sometimes, boat drifting in the wind, or marking a position, Adam would launch into one of his random, meandering anecdotes. Grouching about _kids today_ became an account of freezing winter mornings chopping wood for the kitchen stove, before morphing into a lesson on the correct technique for the use and sharpening of an axe. Tales of Adam’s school days, in contrast, were sparse and colourless. His dad had been a jock, like him, and an average student, which he was not allowed to be. That was all he knew.

Connor thirsted for information and did not wish for sleep, so he stretched his tired eyes wider. “This morning,” he said tentatively, “I found a book. On the kitchen counter.”

“I put it there.” 

A long silence. Relieved he was not in trouble, Connor waited. 

“When I was a little older than you, I had a girlfriend.” 

Connor remembered the big, flowery message on the page in the yearbook. “Was it Lori?”

“No. Lori was—we were classmates.” Connor would not get to hear about Lori. His dad had treated her poorly and was the poorer for it. “We dated a little our last year of high school.” Adam dismissed Lori with a sweep of his hand. “My first girlfriend was Karen.”

Connor forgot his tiredness. “She was in the book, too!”

 “You looked at the notes?” Adam’s voice was even. Connor shied at the warning sign. 

“We were careful.” A tinge of defiance. “We didn’t mess anything up.”

The air conditioner blasted, rattling over the tense silence. Despite the chill in the room, Connor’s t-shirt stuck to his skin. The synthetic comforter weighed on his bandaged foot. Restless, he freed it from the harsh fabric, piled up blankets to support the ankle.  

“It’s bothering you?” Adam rummaged through Connor’s backpack, found the bottle of painkillers, handed two over with a glass of water. 

Connor looked at the pills in his hand with ennui, wishing he could refuse them. His dad was waiting. He tossed them back. 

“It’s fine, Dad. Keep going.”

Adam stayed on his feet, pacing around the room. It was tiring just to look at him. Connor’s eyelids drooped as he began to talk again. “Karen was older than me. She repeated a grade because her family moved around a lot.” 

This was relevant to Connor’s interests. He lifted his head. “Repeated, like, if you’d pulled me out of Anchor Beach?”

“Let’s stick to the point, shall we?” 

His head fell back against the pillows, the quickening, familiar pulse of anger dulled by the painkillers. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

A pleased nod. The uneasy pacing slowed. Adam came to perch on the side of his bed, and Connor was able to focus again.

 

“Okay. Now, where was I?”

At last, the boy appeared calm and attentive. However, preparing to launch into his drab little story, Adam found himself hesitating on the brink. 

A familiar voice in his head started up, the one that sounded like his father. 

_What are you going to do—fall at the first hurdle?  Call yourself a man?_

In counterpoint, the cacophony of babbling females: his wife, perhaps, Lena and Stef Adams Foster, certainly. 

 _Take this step, this opportunity. You made the decision not to look away, not hide from the truth about Connor any longer. Gift him this part of his history. Telling him about those early years is not for you. Don’t be afraid. It’s okay, Adam_. _Your perspective can benefit him._  

A third voice, a new one, less harsh than his father, more personal than the feminine chorus. 

_You can’t make Connor trust you, but you can start trusting him. He’s not your rival or your enemy. What was it all for, anyway, if you lose him, too?_

 

The click and whir of a polaroid camera. The weight of his duffle bag, the three of thempounding at his shoulder, throwing their arms around him, hanging on his neck. An Amtrak train drawing into the railhead station. _Kill it, Adam! See you at Christmas!_ Feeling nothing but embarrassment at their pity. 

For the life of him, Adam could not work out what he had done to deserve the shame. His dad, well, he expected nothing from the man. But his mom? The woman was so weak, she wouldn’t even get the bastard to drive her as far as the train and see him off to college. Hitching his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, he picked up his boom box and boarded the sleeper carriage. 

 

Connor’s breathing was shallow and even, the medication doing its work. Adam put out a tentative hand and felt his son’s forehead. 

Cooler now, and comforted by the touch, Connor’s eyes fluttered closed. Adam waited, giving himself one last get out of jail free card. 

Connor yawned. “I’m awake.” 

 _Okay, then_. 

“Yeah, so, Karen and I dated for a little bit,” he began softly. 

Connor fixed a bloodshot gaze on him, blinking furiously, tired eyeballs rolling back in his head. “When?”

“In tenth grade. We hung out after school, spent a lot of time together.” Not much supervision at Karen’s house, he remembered. Her parents were never there. 

Back home, Adam’s mother, a permanent, faded fixture in the draughty, unmodernised kitchen, bemoaned the lack of care, but did not open her house to his friends. Her job, which took all her energy, was acting as a buffer between his father and anything that might disturb the fragile equilibrium of a man accustomed to consuming everything that arrived on his plate as a natural right. 

He, the distant patriarch, worked long days and weekends on the farm, went to the town bar at night, arriving home loaded and seeking a target on which to take out his dissatisfaction. The day to day existence on a declining farm, subject to the pincer movement of debt and disastrous federal policy, took its toll on the man. Struggling with the pressures of the job, in the early years, involvement in his son’s life was minimal. When Adam grew big enough to be useful, barking orders became the order of the day, monotonously accompanied by cuffs around the head and a thrashing when the boy failed to meet expectations. Later, tirades of abuse rained on the head of his worthless, layabout son. Freely flying fists on both sides were a regular occurrence. Throughout his teenage years, Adam protected his mom, as best he could, until the day he left home without a backward glance. 

Connor cleared his throat, a tiny sound. “No rules?” he prompted.

He shrugged. “I lied about where I was. Remember, we weren’t in a city. I had a lot of freedom. That’s why I’m strict with you, because I know what I was like.”  

“I’m not you, Dad.”  

It was true. It injured his ego to acknowledge that, until recently, his son had never been one for sneaking around. Whereas he, Adam, had lied to his parents without thought or conscience. Every misstep, he had taken on his own. It was all down to him. The injustice of blaming Jude for Connor’s transgressions crossed his mind, was dealt with in an instant. Kids could not be trusted to make responsible decisions. No one had been watching Adam, paying attention, but he would not make that mistake with his own son.  

“What about Grandma?” Connor had never known his grandfather, fortuitously felled by a hemorrhagic stroke at fifty-two. Adam went home to attend the funeral, his first visit in five years. “Didn’t you have a curfew?”

“I said I was at a friend’s house. No one checked up on me.”  

Connor’s eyebrows were in his hairline. Teenage Adam had free rein to do exactly as he pleased and took full advantage. He remembered the dimness of the basement rec room, a flickering TV, reruns of _I Love Lucy_ and _The Brady Bunch_ , afternoons stretching to infinity, the elderly couch with the sunken cushions. 

“What happened then?” 

Nudged from his reverie, Adam resorted to euphemism. “Things got, uh, hot and heavy, I guess.”

“You had sex?” 

Trust Connor to ask a direct question. Holding back nervous laughter, Adam considered his response. Resisting, for now, the temptation to hold forth with _I did this and the moral is, my boy, you shouldn’t do that_ , he settled for honesty. “Yeah. We did.” 

Connor looked thoughtful. “Did you love her?”

All the boys had been captivated by Karen’s qualities. Adam had counted himself one of them. “I told myself I did.” 

Understandably disgusted with this prevarication, Connor demanded clarity. “What does _that_ mean?” 

Stranded in the past, in the net of decades-old emotions, Adam struggled. Sometimes he thought of Karen fondly, bathed in the golden light of nostalgia. More often, he cast her as the robber of his innocence, the slutty girl who interrupted his carefree boyhood, the catalyst for a life marred by premature disappointment and ever-shrinking horizons. Irritated by the direction of his thoughts, he echoed his son’s impatient tone. “Of course I didn’t love her. I was just a kid, for crying out loud.” 

The reek of bullshit was unmistakable. 

“Huh,” Connor said scathingly. 

Adam scrambled to cover his tracks. “Anyway, we broke up soon afterwards. She ended it.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” It had been a punch in the gut surpassing any blow from his father. Going out with Karen, Adam’s buddies had envied him, showered him in high fives and back-slapping congratulations. When she rejected him, leaving him high and dry, bewildered and exposed, they’d poked fun, joined in the sniggers that followed him down the corridors. All but one of them. 

Taking a sharp turn into a new topic, he slammed the door firmly on that line of thought as well. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

Connor shuffled the pillows behind his head, resettled his foot on his makeshift cushion. “Why?” he asked warily. 

“What you said before—”

Connor pushed the blankets down, threw them off like a baby in his crib gearing up to throw a paddy. Adam refused to be diverted; he would drive his point home and an upstart thirteen-year-old was not going to control the terms of the conversation with the threat of a tantrum. “Calm down, would you?” he barked. 

Connor cringed towards the wall. Adam pushed on. “I get that there’s, you know, pressure, especially these days.” 

Eyes drifting sideways, Connor’s jaw quilted with tension. 

“And now you’re in a…”—he coughed up the word—“…relationship.” The temptation to moralise was irresistible. “I know you, son. You don’t always think things all the way through.” He got a little crude. “What if you _had_ screwed that girl? How’d you think you’d be feeling right now, huh?”

Connor turned to look directly at him, murder in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have,” he ground out. “I was never going to.” The words hung in the air between them, in blazing, foot-high letters: _because I’m gay_. 

Disconcerted at having botched things, yet again, Adam faltered. “Well, good. And it doesn’t matter now, does it? Because you told me the truth earlier.”

“Truth about what?”

“That nothing like _that_ is going on with Jude, right?”

In haughty silence, Connor turned away. Adam acceded a draw. “So, no need to bite my head off, okay? We’re talking about me here, not you.”

Connor slid down under the covers again, angled his shoulders away from the wall and stared at the ceiling. Adam took the concession as a sign to continue. 

“When Karen and I broke up, it—it was pretty bad.” 

“How?”

“She talked to all her girlfriends at school.”

“About what? Oh.”

“Yeah. I don’t need to spell it out for you. Word gets around.”

“Wow, Dad.” 

Relaxing completely for the first time since arriving at the hotel, Connor rolled onto his side, grinning. This hitherto unsuspected glimpse of his father as a fragile human being clearly delighted him. “I feel kind of bad for you.” 

“No need to feel sorry for me, it was a long time ago. Point is, it wasn’t exactly pleasant.”

Connor was blasé. “Well, sure,” he said, displaying the insouciance of a thirteen-year-old situated comfortably in the top third of his class and never not picked first for sports. Adam sighed at the impossibility of resigning himself to the myriad petty humiliations that were all he could see in his son’s future.

Cars sweeping past on the highway were becoming fewer and farther between. As the first orange-tinted light in five minutes leaked through the edges of the curtains, Adam checked the readout on his phone. It was past midnight. Tweaking the curtains closer together, he sounded the death knell. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth.” 

“But Da-ad!” Connor whined happily. “That means I have to get up again.”

“You should have thought of that before. No. Don’t give me that look.” 

The puppy dog eyes were turned up to eleven. To Adam, who had been a long time out in the cold, they were the lights of home seen through a blizzard. “Okay, fine. Stay there.” 

Triumphant, Connor pulled himself back up to a sitting position. Adam picked up his tumbler, went to the bathroom, filled the glass with water and put paste on the second toothbrush from the drugstore bag. 

Connor brushed, rinsed and spit. Adam waited for him to lie down and close his eyes. “Good night, Dad,” he mumbled.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered, with all the smug affection of a parent with ultimate power to command. 

The room grew quiet. 

This time, the complacency was short-lived. Gradually, the sound of Connor’s breathing grew louder, no longer even but laboured. Adam, flicking through new emails on his phone, did not notice. A jagged intake of breath, and Connor’s arm flew up to rest beside his head. Catching sight of the movement out of the corner of his eye, Adam, engrossed in the soothing rhythm of deleting junk, slid out of bed and stood over the sleeping boy. 

The phone, accurately thrown without a backward glance, landed smack dab in the middle of the pillow. Adam’s full attention was on his son, eyebrows peaked in a troubled frown. In sleep, the bluish shadows bruising Connor’s eyelids stood out plainly and the rasp of his breathing filled the room. Adam watched as the arm came down to slam against the mattress. Propped up on a pile of pillows, his head rolled from side to side, chin chucked up in the air. Adam darted his hand forward, then pulled it back. 

After a few minutes, Connor quieted, intervals between shallow, panting breaths growing longer. Relieved, Adam relaxed back on his heels, when a muffled whimper of distress sent his pulse rate skyrocketing again. Rolling over onto his side, Connor drew the comforter up to his chin, eyes squeezed tight shut against the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand. Hoping it was safe to do so, Adam knelt down, stroking the tousled hair. “It’s okay, son. I’m here,” he said. 

Connor’s breathing quickened again and his eyes flew open, tears starting and springing down his cheeks. Adam, familiar with the old pattern of his child’s night terrors, part of him wishing he had a pacifier on hand, knew him still to be asleep. “There, son,” he murmured again. “You can sleep. You’re safe. Everybody’s safe.” 

Connor, compliant, closed his eyes, but they were not out of the woods yet. Adam shifted his position, lifting his hand from the boy’s head as he settled himself more comfortably on the floor.

“No!” Connor released his grip on the comforter. Nonplussed, Adam reached for the hand that was waving around, patting the air, looking for something missing. Connor grew calmer immediately. Adam strained forward to listen to the mumbled words. “Don’t…let…go…”

He clasped the hand tighter. “I won’t, son. I’ve got you.”

Connor’s voice was young, frightened. “Is it here yet?”

Going with it, Adam poured reassurance into his words. “Yes, it’s here.”

“Can’t hear anything.”

“It’ll be here in a minute.”

“Hurts.” 

 _Oh God._ “It’s coming, son. I’m here.”

Oily tears trickled across the bridge of Connor’s nose, soaking into the pillow. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. All my fault.”  

“It’s fine, Connor. You’re doing fine. It’s going to be okay.”

“Don’t let go. Not ’til it gets here. Promise me, Jude?”

 Adam choked on the acid that erupted into his mouth. Ignoring the burn of eroding tissue as it gurgled its way back down his throat, he turned his face away. “I promise,” he murmured. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special shout-out to repeat visitors in the comments, the very awesome Ptite Mac, Marler, bisexualnaruto, Imperial Weekend, nicoUCLA and Jonnoruniverse. And what can I say? BOARDPRESENCE, cheerleader, sounding board, American-picker and so very much more, this story would not exist in its current form without you. Thanks, babe. You’re the best.
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains homophobic language and references to alcohol.

 

Five minutes later, Connor dropped into deeper sleep and slackened his grip. The connection broken, Adam slumped against the bed. Studying his son’s face—now calm and relaxed—old fears and prejudices resurfaced. The threat to his family posed by Jude swept over him anew. Thirteen year old boys did not date each other. One child was not supposed to provoke such depth of emotion in another. His first impression had been the right one. The boy was sly, sneaky, a liar. Those disconcerting eyes, trained on Adam, knew too much. Who could say what the kid had been exposed to in all those foster homes.

Following the thought was tempting. Effortfully, Adam drove it back down, where it belonged. He had arrived at an equilibrium, his feelings about the matter were under control. Jude was harmless, a child, and Connor’s passionate defence of him innocuous. Soothing himself, he called to mind the evidence of his own eyes and ears at the Adams Foster house. The boys had a sweet friendship. He admitted the idea of them holding hands, cuddling, kissing. He flashed on Connor’s foot massaging Jude’s ankle. Curiosity was one thing. He would move with the times, expand his thinking, be progressive, grow more tolerant. He just had to try. Kids had crushes all the time. The feelings, he reassured himself, would pass. The relationship would not deepen, it would likely end, buying him time to get used to the daunting possibility of his son being gay.

Adam’s breathing eased as he watched Connor’s face soften in sleep. He was no bigot; it bruised his ego that people would think of him that way. His own father now, a different story. _Faggot_ had been his preferred term of abuse, hurled at any man in the community or on the TV screen who failed to match the old man’s crazy standard of masculinity. _Fairy_ was the insult directed at his teenage son, wanting to do the things his friends were doing, meeting up at the local hang outs in town, heading to the big city to hear a new band. To Mr. Stevens (senior) there was no merit in any activity save hard graft.

On a timer, the air con clanked and started up with a whoosh. The stale humidity inside the room circulated languidly. As the temperature dropped and the room grew frigid, in dire need of comfort, Adam foraged. The gap between Connor’s bed and the nightstand held promise and he scrabbled around on the floor. Scrunched and weightless, the discarded bag of M&Ms evaded his groping fingers.

Throwing himself back on his pillows, he reached for his phone and lost himself in mindless scrolling for a time.

Self-justificatory thoughts kept breaking in. He had tried, goddammit. He had made a start, but it was too late. It would never be enough. He was past forty: he could not change, learn to open up, talk about his feelings like a woman. Moreover, it led him into dangerous territory, caused him to make basic errors. Looking back over the evening, he could not imagine what he had been thinking, keeping Connor up so late bending his ear. The siren call of self-indulgence had lured him in, pure and simple. As suspected, these touchy-feely types did not have all the answers and their smugness was irritating. He flushed with horrified embarrassment at his weakness, haunted by his most recent conversation with one of the lecturing females in his life.

 

***

 

Connor texted under the table, giving every appearance of ignoring the muted, circular argument going on around him. Adam picked at his salad.

“There you go. Focusing on yourself, as usual, putting Connor’s needs last.” Point scored, she sat back and sipped at the dregs in her wine glass.

“What’s that mean?” The accusation stung like the vinegar in his overdressed salad bowl. Having failed so spectacularly to keep their son safe and intact, Adam found himself in a weakened position.

Pushing the salad to one side, he fought back. “I wasn’t the one out of the country when he got himself shot.”

There was a lull as the dessert menu arrived. Predictably, Adam opted for the cheese plate, Connor the chocolate mousse and his mother a decaf soy cappuccino. 

Orders received, the ex-couple returned to the fray.

“It would never have happened if you’d been paying attention. Farming him out to the Adams Fosters whenever it suited you.”

“It didn’t _suit_ me. I thought…” Adam ground to a halt. Impossible to articulate his panicked reaction, the mix of emotions. Alarm and guilt when his flight had been cancelled, elation and gratitude at knowing there was someone he could ask to step into the breach, someone responsible, someone Connor trusted.

“I expect everyone knows what you thought.”

“Is that called-for? I acted for the best, on information received. The boys told me they were into girls, not each other, for Chrissake.”

“He’s not a baby now, Adam. You can’t just dictate terms and change them when it works for you and lay down the law when it doesn’t. He’s got a mind of his own. If you don’t listen to him, he’ll do what he wants anyway.”

He was sick to the back teeth of women telling him where he was going wrong with his son. “Are we still talking about Connor?” he sniped.

He watched as she emptied a packet of sweet and low into her cup with trembling fingers. Sympathy twanged in his gut and his guard began to crumble. He leaned forward to catch her next remark, muttered under her breath: “No wonder he didn’t know if he was coming or going.”

The bile rose. “He lied _to my face_. I can’t keep him locked up. What would you have done?”

“I would have _talked_ to him.”

His sense of injustice was blinding. “Right. Okay. You think he would have talked back? You left us, remember?” He wished her all the luck in the world getting Connor to talk about anything except soccer on frickin’ _Skype_.

The blow did not land. Flicking her long fingernails at him, she parried. “It’s like you don’t know your own son. Or maybe you just don’t want to, huh? We talked about this, months ago. At least, I tried. You wouldn’t even hear it.”

“He was barely thirteen.”

“You could have shared your concerns with the Vice-Principal, like I suggested. But no. You had to go and impose that ridiculous rule, and why? Because it made your life simpler. And look where we are now.”

“Maybe if you’d been around at the time, you could have actually helped, instead of parachuting in full of sage advice after the fact.”

“Adam, please.” Her nostrils narrowed, in rage or sorrow. Years ago, he would have known what she was thinking. “We can’t go over all that again. This is about Connor.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, I can’t believe I ever agreed to him staying with you. Look at him. His clothes are a mess.”

“The maid’s on vacation. I have work, you know, it’s not just you.” The woman was impossible.

“Plus, that bandage is disgusting.”

Connor glanced up guiltily. Adam seethed and speared himself a piece of Brie.

She went in for the kill. “I guess you don’t have any personal days left now?”

“Of course I don’t. He was in the hospital for almost a week.”

“So that makes things simple. I’m finished here and back in L.A. next week. He can come to me for the summer.”

He remembered Connor’s head coming up sharply. “Mom, no!”

“ _Honey_.” Her face crumpling, she swirled the spoon around in the half-empty coffee cup.

 

***

 

In bed, playing the scene through to its conclusion, Adam’s vindictive triumph drained out of him, leaving behind a queasy balance as another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. It had been a comfortable lie, one he was more than happy to tell himself, that the boy actually wanted, preferred to be with his dad. Throughout the protracted separation process, Connor made a compelling case for his choice to stay in San Diego: his friends at Anchor Beach, his teams, his classes, his own room. His parents were convinced, after all, it made perfect sense. Now he had to wonder: would Connor have left him at the same time as his wife, if not for his friendship with Jude?    

The weather-vane of his feverish thoughts swung around a hundred and eighty degrees, leaving Adam dizzy. He could not figure his decision to talk to Connor about his past. There wasn’t always a time and place. Shaken up and hurting, the boy had needed his dad by his side, seemed happy enough when he dropped off to sleep. Perhaps he was not a callous, self-centred monster. His intentions, at least, were unsullied. Yet still, again, at the vital moment, he’d backed away, resorted to threats and condescension.

Caught in patterns of denial set down decades earlier, Adam had no resources to fall back on in times of stress, only default, programmed responses. The way forward seemed clear. He needed to help his son. His wife was no longer his ally but an opponent, so he would turn elsewhere. Time to stop throwing a pity party for himself, take another step, embark on the next stage of his little trip down memory lane.

His movements took on purpose. He found himself tapping a name into the search bar of his inbox. Forty-some results presented themselves going back years.

Lori—of course—was the one who kept the thread connecting the four of them intact. Throughout his first year of college, chatty letters full of her classes, new friends, the softball team arrived a month or two apart, sometimes scrawled on lilac-scented stationery, sometimes typed on paper that rustled like onion skin. Adam found them less than gripping, skipped to the end, where there might be a few lines of news from back home. Karen was ditching community college, working as a cashier at the bank, had joined an all-girl band, planned to leave for Seattle in the spring. Letter after letter, only sparse information about Dan, until after Christmas, a nugget of third hand gossip. On first reading, Adam froze. Later, racked with self-pity at having effectively cut himself out of the loop, he shut down. At that point, he might have picked up the phone. Instead, skinned raw with the deep cuts of betrayal, he distracted himself by getting drunk and screwing a cheerleader. In his reply to Lori’s letter, he said nothing in response to her news that Dan, on one of his frequent visits home, had come out as gay to his family and friends.

Throughout his second year, as life became busier and he ascended the team ranks, something compelled him to keep writing. Letting the thread unravel completely was unimaginable. He scratched out clipped accounts of how the team was faring, his performance and current prospects and dropped them in the mail. Details about Miami that he hoped would find an appreciative audience, a poor substitute for actual personal contact. Lori, he was sure, would not have held onto her half of the correspondence.

Another year on, when the news reached him—big enough news, this time to warrant an actual, honest-to-God phone call from his mom—the first thing Adam did was pull out the box of letters shoved under the bed of his dorm room. Shattered, he scoured them for clues of his former friend’s mental state, finding nothing except brief references already committed to memory. Dan was bored of philosophy, hoping to switch majors. He was volunteering for the student helpline. He was sick, at home convalescing, getting over it, back in college. That had been two months ago. The night before they found him, according to the rumour, Dan had called up his ex. He seemed fine, the story went, a little tired from studying. He planned on popping a migraine pill and going to bed early. Maybe a double dose to guarantee a good night’s sleep.

A painful call placed to Dan’s parents and a condolence card was as much as Adam could muster. He could not face the funeral. According to Lori, it was well-attended. In high school, Dan had been generally liked; unlike Adam, he invited in friendship beyond their tight-knit group. Still, his immediate circle was moderate, comprised of friends of friends, the misfit detritus of a middling public school. In college, Lori reported, he’d managed to acquire a moderately flashy retinue, many of whom, weeping openly at the interment, drew scandalised looks from the inhabitants of their grim-faced farming community.

Her old letters were now faded. Still in their original box, they lived on the high shelf of the landing cupboard at the Stevens house, along with a handful of musty-smelling keepsakes and rusted trinkets, a pack of faded polaroids, a high school year book. Miserly, Adam hoarded the scattered remnants of his former life. He would not have them pried out of his hands, opened up, discussed, talked to death.

Prodding the familiar guilt like an old injury, he thought about the notes tucked into the book. _Always the last to know_. The memory twisted his mouth in a reluctant grin. French, of course. Dan had a gift for pretension as well as friendship. That wasn’t the part of the note that pierced his gut, brought the sour taste of whisky into the back of his throat. _Don’t forget about me_ , Dan had written. Adam had not, but he might as well have. Avoiding his fear of the unknown, he’d buried himself in his own concerns and, ever since, cursed himself for letting the thread snap. He rationalised that Dan’s actions were not on him. Their childhood friendship was bound by the rose-gold links of grade school, junior high and endless summer vacations. Senior year, it wore thin. They even fought. Dan was critical of Adam’s string of girlfriends, the way he fucked around on them, disapproved his dismissive treatment of Lori. Dan’s judgmental streak clashed head-on with Adam’s self-destructive behaviour, driving a wedge between them. Instinctively, Adam knew that his hesitation to maintain contact was explicable, forgivable. Nevertheless, taught by his parents to be extreme in his reactions and shoulder excessive responsibility, he never quite managed to shake off the sense of having failed his oldest friend.

He could not account for his surprise that Connor had taken the trouble to read the fragile, ancient notes. It dawned on him that his son’s interest did not lie in the surface, authoritarian Adam. Running for his life from the way he had been raised, the abrupt violence of his past was nothing he wanted to pass on to his son. He went out of his way to forget, still, it pursued him. Taught to duck and dive, adapting to the prevailing temperature of his parents’ shifting moods, their boy was not one to overlook messy details. Stupid to feel unsettled by the knowledge Connor had read the swear words, the sexual references—when revealing himself had been the point of the exercise.    

The notes from the girls were nothing. Adam hadn’t looked at them in years. Lori’s later updates boasted of career accomplishments, and of Karen’s adventurous lifestyle: studying in London on her parents’ dime, now a Master of Arts, in the process of setting up her own photography studio. In 2003, out of the blue, an email redirected to his new gmail address arrived. Lori’s first paragraph droned on about her new job working as a PR consultant for a luxury travel firm. He passed over it. The second evoked the vivacious girl he remembered from school: bubbling over with excitement, colourful anecdotes about the pleasurable stresses of her forthcoming wedding, chasing him for his RSVP. Then, a postscript:

_Karen replied on time, unlike some people I could mention. And after nothing for two years—I feel blessed! Says she’s been working overseas all this time—Brazil, Cuba, Australia, you name it. She’s bringing a plus one, and wait for it—can you guess??? HER - yes you read that right - her name is Elisa, a musician. They live in New Jersey, and that’s all she wrote. She sounds soooo happy. I’m excited to see her. You have to come, seriously. You can’t *still* be taken up with that bubba of yours. What is he now? 2, 3? So bring him, there’ll be tons of kids. My friends have scads of rug rats running around, they breed like rabbits._

Adam checked his reply, the hollow excuses he had made. The first truly rough year, not yet beaten down, still holding out hope that a brother or sister for Connor would be along any minute. They did not attend the wedding. Generous, unsentimental Lori did not take offence, but it was her last personal communication. Every Christmas, without fail, she bounced into his inbox with vibrant, chatty, artfully-composed, round robin newsletters which, after a brief scan, went straight to trash.

Now, he wondered what he’d missed out on by avoiding the reunion. At the time, raw with hurt for the baby that was never more than a clump of cells, clenched around the pain of recent loss, staying upright, walking and talking and going about his day was enough. He clung to the daily routine of caring for Connor, making sure he was safe at daycare, going to work and coming home to alternating silence and snarls. A wedding was a high-risk situation. In their feminine way, Lori and Karen would fall into reminiscence, call up old times. He could not risk the encounter, have them work away at the scarred-over tissue of his memories of home, of high school, of Dan.

At school, the two girls had been a formidable combination. Lori was straightforward, sporty, a breath of fresh air. Adam sneered at her crush on him, failed to take her feelings seriously because of it. No one ignored Karen. For the brief period of his infatuation, Adam thought she walked on water. All the boys fell at her feet and worshipped her. Not that she was amazing-looking, but worldly. Her dad was some kind of road engineer, big projects in developing countries. Most importantly, she was built. Her figure was not hourglass, it was baroque. When she chose Adam—mainly, he suspected, on the grounds he was the same height as her—his reputation was sealed. For two months, Adam and Karen were the king and queen of Ridgeview High. Deciding to lose his virginity with Karen had been no decision at all.

Impatient, hormone-crazed and sleepwalking his way through his teenage years on autopilot, Adam marked time waiting for his real life, his team life, to start. In high school, the message that sex was something he was supposed to want was reinforced everywhere he looked. No one warned him of the dangers of acting against his deepest instincts, or that his first time would leave him wide open—stripped bare. After the humiliating liaison with Karen, Adam protected himself, embarked on the simple, rational task of classifying women into sluts and prudes, trashy Madonnas and classy Whitneys. The banal disaster of his first time over and done with, his path was set, irrevocable. It stretched in front him, arrow-like, the lights of a runway and he ran along it full-tilt, screwing anything that moved. In this way, he ignored the disappointment of losing the full experience of a rite of passage. He lived with grief for his younger self, burying it under layers of busy-ness and achievement.

Thumbs hovering over the keypad, on the point of shooting off a quick email, Adam looked over at his son, sleeping peacefully, nightmares at an end. Pride swelled his chest. That was an accomplishment, lonely without someone to share it. Talking to Connor had shaken something loose. The desultory email search represented an awakening desire to retrieve something meaningful from the chaos of the past. Still, the easier path beckoned: self-pity, resentment, and blame targeted at those he held responsible for his misfortune. His mother had failed him first, but she was helpless, a victim. His wife bore the brunt of his frustration. Her sins were well-rehearsed, acquiring the status of unassailable truths: lack of support for his baseball career; failing to provide a happy family life and a sibling for Connor; having the gumption to leave and make a new life for herself.

Disgraceful, now, to crawl back to his ex-girlfriends, cap in hand, needing their help. Adam did not remember his friends’ kindness towards him. Lori and Karen—and Dan—had shown gentleness and tact when he turned up at school with a black eye or split lip. He did remember, with shame, their acceptance of his black moods and sullen silences. _It’s just Adam_ they would shrug, coming back when he cooled down. That they always came back, he did not remember.

He remembered the good times, the bragging, the promises to each other. The four of them would get out, fly away, the years and the world would not transform them into their narrow-minded parents. His face turned hot. Throwing off the sheet, he loosened the cord, shrugged the hotel bath robe off his shoulders. Cooling his skin failed to soothe his irritation. He imagined the pitying looks they would give him and his fists clenched involuntarily. He stared down at his chest and stomach, dick shrinking under the white flannel. He didn’t want to be _just Adam_ , not anymore, but did not yet know how to be anyone else.

Tapping out of his email application, Adam went back to scrolling through his news feeds. He needed to relax, get some sleep. Second nature to fall back on his habit of shutting down the younger-older part of himself, the part that knew by instinct how to feel, to love and be loved. Everything he did, every decision made was his own choice. After all, he was a man, a goal-setter, no room for doubt. He could do this, like so many things, on his own. The mistake had been to reach out, to ask for help. He and Connor were doing just fine.

There was still one miniature in the fridge. Pulling the cord of the bath robe tight around his waist, he got out of bed and dropped his phone into his pants pocket.

Twenty minutes later, he was deep in a whiskey-fumed slumber. When the chambermaid banged on the door eight hours later, father and son were still dead to the world.


	17. Chapter 17

His father turned the key in the lock. Inside, the familiar smell of home hit his nostrils. Connor dragged himself upstairs and the comforting chaos of his own room enveloped him. The charger lay in full view on the nightstand, ready to be packed. He still couldn’t believe he had left it behind. It was not like him to be such a massive flake. He plugged it into the wall socket.

The phone beeped as it came back to life. Jude would be in science class now. Dumping out the contents of his schoolbag on his bed, Connor started to pick through the various bits of crap accumulated in one night away from home: a swizzle stick from his mocktail at the restaurant yesterday; a revolving pencil, stripy blue and white spirals like a stick of seaside candy, swiped that morning from the reception desk at the hotel. Someone was probably missing it by now. He planned to give it to Jude.

He dislodged a heavy gift bag squished into a corner of his backpack, a sleeveless summer tee from a high-end LA store. Unwrapping layers of tissue paper, he held the fabric to his nose, inhaled a deep sniff of knitted cotton and—he checked the label—silk. The closet door was standing open. He rolled the shirt into a ball, aiming for the cavernous space. A pile of unused books, games, and clothes teetered in one corner, gifts from his mom over the past few months. Arm drawn back, he hesitated, then dropped the shirt on the bed instead, where it fell in rippling folds. Pretty, he decided; the stripes were good colours. Maybe he would try it on later.

 

***

 

“That’s a pretty colour, ma’am. Very youthful.” The teenage sales assistant looked his mom up and down, sneering at her expensive blow out, designer hand bag and gold jewellery.

He remembered her bright smile. “Yes, it’s just lovely. What do you think, Connor, is this one the shade?”

“Um, not sure,” he mumbled, picking up the bottle and examining the tiny print on the bottom, as if it could tell him something he couldn’t see with his own eyes. For some reason, he wanted to match the colour of Jude’s nails.

“Oh. It’s for _you_.” The girl’s piercings, little bars and silver rings, trembled as she moved and her stuck-on eyelashes waved up and down appraisingly, like a cartoon cow.

“That’s right,” said his mom, taking his hand and pulling him closer so they stood shoulder to shoulder. She held out her hand and he dropped the bottle into her palm. “Close enough?”

The colour _was_ pretty. Perhaps a slight difference wasn’t important. He smiled up at her gratefully. “I guess it’s fine.”

 

***

 

For two days, the U-haul stood in the driveway. It crouched there the day of the funeral, a malevolent beast.

“Let him go. We can get everything loaded up while he’s over there.”

“Adam, it’s my last day. We should spend it together.”

“It’s better he’s not here for this.”

“Better for _you_ ,” his mom protested. Still, she had let him go, and he was glad.  

 

***

 

“Mom? Is it okay if Stef and Lena adopt me?”

Delicately, he pushed the planchet away from him, towards the “yes” printed on the corner of the board. So often opaque, unreadable, Jude’s eyes were a revelation. Warmth streamed back at him across the game board, powering a forcefield strong enough to surround both of them. For a second, their fingers touched. Glowing all over, sustained by the purity of Jude’s happiness, Connor forgot he didn’t have any say over his own life.

 

***

 

Jude’s foster mom dropped him home. Lena, not the cop one, whose dad had just died. The warmth lingered throughout the drive home. Connor rubbed his pinkie where Jude’s had touched it and thought about seeing him at school on Monday. Right now, school and soccer and seeing Jude were beacons in the darkness.

Dad and Mom were drinking coffee in the kitchen. The pulse of hope on seeing them together, sitting quietly without arguing, died quickly. Mom was running through the list of instructions yet again. The maid would be coming on Tuesdays. Batting cages _after_ homework. Don’t forget to shop for groceries.

His dad, thin-lipped, sniped through gritted teeth. “I’ve taken care of things before, remember?”

“Connor was younger then. It’s different now, he’s going to need you to help him with science and English and making sure he eats healthy. You can’t spend every night watching ESPN and ignoring him.”

“I don’t _ignore_ him.”

“He won’t remember to leave out his soccer gear, or tell you when the toothpaste runs out. You’re going to have to be on top of these things.”

“I got it. Jesus.”

“Anyway, I call bullshit. You never shopped, or cooked or made sure his clothes were clean. Even when I was sick.”

Hovering by the table in his new sweater, hair slicked down, the warm glow dissipated. “Mom, please,” he begged. “Don’t.”

“Honey, it’s okay.” His mom drained her cup and stood to pull him into a sweet-smelling hug. “Your dad and I are going to make this work.”

Connor held himself stiff. Returning the hug would make it worse when he had to let go. “Are you going now?” _Don’t go_.

“It’s getting late. You need to get on the road.” His dad got up and the three of them stood around in the kitchen.

The keys to the U-haul were sitting on the counter. “I’ll call as soon as I get unpacked.”

They watched as she drove away. She was crying as she got into the cab, tears sliding out from under her sunglasses, but Connor managed to remain stony-faced. He kept his arms by his sides, ramrod straight, copying his dad.

He held the pose until the trailer turned at the end of the road. Then he broke, running inside the house and up to his room, where he threw himself face down on the bed.

 

***

 

The phone was now on twenty-five per cent. Connor checked the time. Close enough. He sent a text.

 

***

 

Last class before lunch was science. Jude was on the edge of his seat all lesson, squirming around until his teacher asked if he had ants in his pants. Ten minutes before the bell, his phone vibrated. He slid it out of his back pocket and looked at it under the desk.

Busy ruling lines in her notebook in overt silence, Taylor smirked. Stealing a glance around the room, Jude took in a quiet lungful of air and raised his hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

The corridor was empty. He raced down it, pausing outside the boys’ bathroom to check his phone again.

_Slept in this morning. Just got home._

The bathroom was unoccupied. He leaned against a sink, typing furiously. _Where were you? Are you okay?_

_You didn’t get my dad’s message?_

_No._

_We sent a text to your mom. Stayed in a hotel last night._

Jude began to type _Why?_ and then deleted it. _Are you coming into school?_

_No._

Connor was typing, so Jude waited. The message materialised. _Come over later?_

The edge of the tile around the sink was cold. Shifting to relieve the sensation of it digging into his ass, he stared at the screen, caught in indecision.

_Your dad okay with that?_

The answer was immediate.

_His idea. …_

Jude breathed deep to calm the hammering in his chest.

_… He said stay for dinner if you want._

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Jude sent a reply, then pocketed his phone.

 

***

“Connor! Lunch is ready.”

“Just a minute.”

The backpack was empty and everything was in order again. Connor pulled off his baseball top, dropped the silky t-shirt over his head and took a last look at Jude’s message.

_I’ll ask my mom._

The words echoed up the stairs. _“_ Get a move on. _”_

 _“_ Okay,” he yelled back. “Coming now. _”_

 


	18. Chapter 18

Mama squeezed his hand. Her warmth and the smell of her perfume was comforting. On the steps leading up to Connor’s house they waited for someone to answer the front door. “I think this was painted blue the last time we were here,” Lena said. Jude glanced to the side; Mama was nervous too. He squeezed her hand back.

The door opened and Connor’s dad was standing there, framed in the doorway like a sentinel. Connor stood behind him in the shadows. “Hi.” Mr Stevens sounded like a normal person. Friendly, even. He stood to one side and extended his arm. “Come on in.”

Jude nodded a greeting and stepped over the threshold of the Stevens house for the first time in months. Connor moved out of the way to let him through, beckoning excitedly. Mr Stevens addressed his mom. “Lena, will you stay for a cup of tea? I have, uh, camomile, I think.”

“Thanks.”

They stood, an awkward group of four, in the narrow hallway. “Go on into the living room. Connor, lead the way,” Mr Stevens said with a touch of his usual impatient bark.

The living room looked a little different to how Jude remembered it. Mess covered the coffee table: newspapers and unopened mail and a whole bunch of controllers. The throw cushions were ranked in a perfectly straight line along the couch instead of placed in careful disarray. There was no vase of flowers on the sideboard and the hand-knitted baby blanket—draped over the recliner last time he was here—was missing. Apart from Connor’s room, the blanket had been Jude’s favourite thing about the Stevens’ antiseptic house.

Lurching over to him, Connor dropped his crutches and threw out his arms. Before he could react Jude found himself wrapped in a bear hug. “I missed you,” Connor said.

He stood stock still, frozen-faced, arms clamped by his sides. Mr Stevens looked the other way, turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Mama watched him go. Telegraphing his fear with his eyes, Jude swallowed, struggling to catch his breath. She shot him a supportive smile. “Don’t mind me.” Collapsing gracefully onto the couch, she circled her ankles. “I’m just waiting for my tea.” Leaning back, she closed her eyes and pretended to nap.

Jude raised his hands and patted his boyfriend’s back awkwardly. Placing his mouth close to Connor’s ear, he whispered, “I missed you, too.” The death grip relaxed and he freed his arms, slipping them around Connor’s midsection. Daringly, he found a convenient spot for his head, closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent.

“Dad’s got snacks for us in the kitchen.”

“Cool.”

“He said we can talk upstairs.”

Jude wondered if Connor’s room would feel different, too.

 

Lena was slipping her feet back into her sandals when the door to the living-room opened. The mugs on the tray wobbled as Adam set it down. “Thanks for bringing Jude over.”

She sipped: hot water with the faintest trace of camomile. “No problem. It’s hardly out of my way.”

“Connor was anxious to see him.”

“I got that.”

“Sorry for having him miss another day of school.”

In Lena’s opinion sick kids recovered more quickly when allowed plenty of rest. Squashing the impulse to dismiss his apology she reminded herself she was here for Jude not to scold Adam on his parental shortcomings. It had been a long day; possibly she was projecting a little given the circumstances. Calling to mind the picture in her purse of her twins—intact, healthy and smiling—she tilted her head in acknowledgment, said nothing, considered what she had just witnessed. Connor was not the only anxious kid around here. Jude, too, was experiencing some disquiet, going by his pallor on the doorstep and big eyes when Connor hugged him.

“I guess Jude was keen to see Connor, as well,” Adam pronounced abruptly and Lena pivoted, recalculating. How she struggled to find a secure footing in her shifting relationship with this man. Try as she might, she could not get comfortable with him. But perhaps he was kindlier than she gave him credit for underneath all the rigid formality and smouldering hostility. Wishing herself at home, in Stef’s arms, she cajoled herself into making an effort, laced her fingers around the mug and sipped with precision.

“He was a little wound up. We missed each other this morning. How’s Connor doing—managing the crutches okay?” _Damn it._ Too late, she heard the moralising inflection in her tone.

A strange expression flickered across Adam’s face and he pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, obviously stifling a retort. Much too late, she recalled their equally stilted phone call the week before. Right after inviting the Stevens to dinner, she’d offered her opinion on Connor’s recovery, querying Adam’s decision to send him back to school the day after his discharge from hospital. Later, Stef, rightly, chided her for meddling and bringing work home. “Yeah, he is,” Adam said repressively. “It’s not a problem for him.”

There was an awkward pause. His dark eyes were fixed, the tendons in his neck visible—what could be going through his mind?—but when Adam spoke again his voice was bland. “Provided he doesn’t forget them to go haring after your son.”

“I’m sorry?” She placed her mug back on the coffee table.

“Not as sorry as I was yesterday morning.” He filled her in on the clandestine early morning visit.

 

The tea was growing cold. Out of politeness he offered another and invited Lena to follow him to the kitchen. Observing her subtle glances at the grimy breakfast bar and layer of sticky dust on the countertops he suppressed an impulse to apologise for the dingy state of the place.

She offered to make the tea; he accepted gratefully, lounged on a stool and embarked on the unfinished business that was the reason he’d invited her in. “Classes come first,” he stated. “Until he’s done with summer school they can see each other on weekends. I haven’t told Connor yet. I wanted to update you first.”

“Okay,” she replied, rinsing mugs under the tap. “At dinner we agreed between the three of us they could see each other on occasional school nights, do their homework together.”

“I remember what we talked about.”

Scouring the cupboards, Lena hit upon an unopened box of tea he’d forgotten was in there. She pulled it down— _May I_? _Sure, go ahead_ —and ripped off the cellophane. “It’s really no bother at all for Connor to eat with us, if you don’t want them here…”

“I said Jude was welcome to come over, and I meant it.”  

“Obviously I’ll make it clear he needs our permission, he can’t just head over on Connor’s say-so.”

He sighed. “Thanks. Just this once it’s not a big deal. They were only mucking about in the garage and Connor understands the rules. As long as Jude knows he needs to stay off that foot…”

“He does, I’m sure of it. What’s the issue then?”

“It’s come to my attention things may be going a little, uh, fast between the two of them.”

Lena’s back was to him, filling the kettle, so he missed the sceptical eyebrow. “Not sure I follow,” she said coolly.

Discouraged, Adam rested his elbows on the greasy countertop, put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. It did not help. The glimpse of his son embracing Jude as though he hadn’t seen him in six months was still branded on the back of his eye sockets. How to put this? “Not, uh, physically,” he began. “Connor seems awful, let’s say, attached to Jude.”

“Well, they’ve been through a lot one way and another.”

Not even an attempt to mask the implied criticism. Adam bridled, needing no further telling that keeping the boys apart had succeeded only in cementing their bond. Wasn’t it enough that he’d accepted the status quo, was doing everything in his power to earn back Connor’s trust? The woman could stand to climb down a few steps from her high horse. “I’m just concerned,” he barked. “Do you know that kids in your school, in seventh grade for pete’s sake, are sexually active?”

Lena settled the kettle on the stove top and turned to face him, poise unruffled. “That may or may not be true. I hope it’s not. Are we talking about our sons?”

“For crying out loud, no.” Then, more calmly, “No. But that’s hardly the point.”

Lena’s eyes drifted to the ceiling. “You seem very sure.”

“I talked to Connor, like you suggested. I trust my son.”

“Well, okay. I mean, that’s good.” Turning back to the stove, Lena clicked on the gas. Did she have to sound so surprised?

“Yeah,” he said defensively and proceeded to overreach himself. “He promised me,” he declaimed boldly, “They’re, uh, taking things slow.”  

Lena’s mouth and eyes formed themselves into perfect Os of polite incredulity. “Okay,” she said, with a negligible shrug, yanked open the door of the dishwasher and plucked a teaspoon out of the basket.

For a moment, the unwavering surface clarity of Adam’s conceit quivered and broke. Somewhere down in the bottom, muddy recesses of his mind a tiny doubt rested. Like a fish, it darted away, and he did not pursue it. “He also told me the girl, Daria, wanted to have sex with him. That he felt pressured!” The puffery invigorated his ego and he grew taller on his stool.

“Adam, please.” Stef would have interpreted her wife’s pursed lips correctly; Lena had her own ideas about the main source of pressure exerted on Connor.

Again, the lack of reaction irked him. “You’re not concerned?” he demanded.

It was Adam’s turn to be disconcerted. Lena swung round to face him, teaspoon upraised and eyes flashing. “I’m concerned about a lot of things. Not least, to be honest, why you would tell me things that I can only imagine Connor said to you in confidence.”

Embarrassed, he raked his fingers through his hair.

Satisfied, Lena went on. “Adam, as an administrator, my door is open for you to share any concerns. You can make an appointment. Is that what you want?”

A wave of fatigue swept over him. The entire drive home his conversation with Connor had repeated on an endless loop. He did not want this, wished again for time and space to deal with one thing at a time. Strenuously, he averted his inner eye from the sight of the boys hugging in his living-room, quashed his ambivalence, clung to the certain knowledge that Connor was safe upstairs, alive and well. An official discussion would be a betrayal, wreck any chance of his son trusting—let alone confiding in—him again. Besides the girl was no longer his problem. “It’s fine,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen is it? But Adam, you don’t have to worry. At Anchor Beach we have policies and procedures in place for talking to the students about sex. I’ve got this, okay?” Her words rang with self-assurance, and the subject was at an end.

The kettle began to sing; Lena lifted it off the stove. Interrupting this quiet interlude came the sound of footsteps hurtling down the stairs.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here in the UK, there is a British institution known as the Speaking Clock. Apparently, in California, until 2007, you could dial POPCORN (or the prefix 767 and any combination of four numbers thereafter) and you would reach the time. Thanks, Wikipedia!

Up in Connor’s room they flopped down on the floor with their snacks and juices. Their voices fell over one another as they rushed to catch up on all they missed by not seeing each other for exactly thirty-two hours. When Connor got to the part about being stuck on the shoulder of the freeway, his voice shook a little; Jude instinctively put down his glass; however, something closed in his boyfriend’s expression prevented him from reaching out a hand. In his bedroom with Jude by his side, Connor had no wish to relive his fears from last night. Glossing over what had transpired with his dad, his narrative focused on the intricacies of the sushi platter, the hotel shower and contents of the minibar. As he launched into a lovingly detailed description of the stack of pancakes served to him at breakfast, Jude returned half his attention to his plate of cookies, thus remaining ignorant of the dialogue that had taken place between the Stevens men.

As a final flourish, Connor handed over the rotating pencil. Overcome by his boyfriend’s thoughtfulness, Jude tested it out immediately on the nearest surface to hand: the front cover of Connor’s science notebook. He doodled an ornate J on the front cover before just as promptly erasing it.

“Oh,” said Connor. “You could have left it.” He held out the book. “Do it again?”

Jude hesitated, considered redrawing it, started over by decorating the C of Connor’s own name. As he finished, the nib snapped, which he took as a sign from the universe. Pocketing the pencil, he went to work on his second cookie.

A question had been hovering at the front of his mind since taking off on his bike and leaving Connor on the swing. “How’s your foot now?”

“Fine,” said Connor curtly.

He did not look fine. His cheeks were a funny brick colour and he was chalk-white around the mouth. Jude could not discern from his general appearance and demeanour the source of his boyfriend’s discomfort; however, he had his suspicions, which were correct. Currently, the mending foot was a pulsating ball of hurt. Well-practiced at secret-keeping and determined not to take another pill, Connor was equally determined to tough it out and tell no one. Two weeks ago, he might have gotten away with it, but things were different now.

Trying something, Jude jumped to his feet and extended a helping hand. “Let’s go outside.”

Connor’s back was propped against the side of the bed, legs sticking out in a wide V. Slumping expressively, he moaned, “Do we have to?”

Jude nudged his boyfriend’s non-gammy leg. “What’s with you? It’s, like, eighty-five degrees out there and you can kick my ass at anything you choose. This is strictly a one-time offer.”

“Just gimme a minute.”

“Sure you’re okay? You look really weird.”

“Thanks a bunch.” Connor listed until he was half-lying down. Supporting the injured foot with his hands, he swung his legs onto the bed and lay back, eyes closed.

Jude’s mother hen instincts kicked in, but he knew enough from handling Callie that demanding answers was a sure-fire recipe for getting his head bitten off. “It’s five-fifteen,” he said casually.

Connor’s eyes stayed shut and his brow furrowed.

“Did you hear me?”

Connor opened one eye. “Got a new job?”

“What?”

“As the Time of Day lady.”

Jude flinched. This was a low blow. Once, he’d mentioned to Connor how, right after his mom died, when Callie was at school and he was home alone, he would dial the number for the time just to hear a human voice. He reasoned that his boyfriend must be feeling like crap to be so mean. Persistence had carried Jude through seven foster homes. Having assumed the responsibility of taking care of Connor at school for the past week, he wasn’t about to be deflected from his mission now. “Every four hours,” he said flatly.

“Huh?”

“You told me, every four hours: nine am, one pm, five pm and nine pm, as required. Your foot’s hurting, it’s completely obvious. So, you know, it’s _required_.”

“I’m not doing that anymore.”

“Why? What did the doctor say?”

Connor stared at something interesting on the ceiling.

“Connor—who told you to change the dose?”

“No one, okay? I decided myself. It’s up to me.”

Jude trod carefully. “Um, your dad’s okay with that?”

Sitting up, Connor picked his plate off the floor and started dabbing at crumbs with his finger.

“He doesn’t _know_?”

“He doesn’t have to know. He wouldn’t care anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

Since the shooting, Jude had learned something about his now-boyfriend. Connor had the idea from somewhere or other that admitting to being in pain was making a fuss over nothing, the province of the weak of mind. Jude, well-acquainted with enduring physical pain without any prospect of relief, had no such misplaced stoicism. “Of course your dad cares,” he snapped. As he looked around the room packed with toys and games and sports equipment, he was furiously angry with Connor.

“Okay, fine. But he wouldn’t mind, is what I’m saying. He says they mess with your head.” Connor did not remember his dream of the night before. By stopping his pain medication, he was hoping for a second uninterrupted night.

“He won’t mind?”

“That’s right.”

“Then _you_ won’t mind if I tell him.”

Before Connor could register protest, Jude leapt to his feet, bolted out of the room and down the stairs.

 

As he barged into the kitchen, Mr Stevens slid off his stool. Lena finished pouring water into two cups, set down the tea kettle and turned around. “What is it, honey?”

Jude gestured to Connor, hopping through the door behind him. “It’s not me, it’s him.”

Two minutes later, with Adam standing over him, Connor had swallowed his five p.m. dose of pills. Jude was impressed by the speed and efficiency of the negotiation. Connor presented his case; without unnecessary palaver, Adam established that Connor would not be stopping his meds unsupervised; he would call Connor’s physician in the morning. Capitulating immediately, Connor agreed to be patient and not take matters into his own hands. Observing this fluid performance of father-son interaction, Jude’s anger at Connor dissipated into wistfulness. He and Adam eyed each other, mutual respect increasing a notch. The boys went back upstairs hollering at each other like a couple of Bassett hounds.

“Door stays open!” Adam yelled after them.

Lena checked the fridge. “Nice job,” she said, working her hardest not to sound condescending.

“Milk’s fresh,” said Adam with a deprecating grin. The family resemblance to Connor struck her, and she liked him for once. Placing the cups on the tiled surface of the kitchen island, Lena joined Adam in perching on a stool.

 

Relaxing on Connor’s bed, agreeably in contact from shoulder to shin, Jude nudged with his foot, brushing against the boot. “Your dad seems cool about me being here. Do you think he’s going to let us hang out here this summer?”

Connor shrugged. This gesture, as Jude correctly decoded, indicated something along the lines of _I have not_ _the faintest idea what goes on in my dad’s mind. Like, it literally changes with the weather and how the Marlins are doing_. Slowly the sun broke through the clouds. Connor’s mouth softened into a curve, eyes lighting up. “I have some news.”

“Oh yeah?”

“My mom’s buying a house in L.A. I can go see her whenever I want. You could come with me sometime, if you want. What do you think?”

“Maybe. I mean…” Jude shuttled rapidly through various possible responses, watching Connor closely for cues. He settled on a neutral question. “When’s she moving in?”

“I dunno. Soon.”

He risked another. “She’s not coming back here then—to live?” Connor had expressed this hope one time only.

“Doesn’t look like it. I’ll see her weekends and holidays.”

“You okay with that?”

Connor looked down and away. Shaking his head slightly, he forced a smile and said, “It’s good I won’t have to travel hours to go visit her.”

Bumping the boot gently again to get his attention, Jude channeled Lena and smiled back. “You’re right,” he said encouragingly, “it’s really good.”

 

Connor took his boyfriend’s (he was never getting tired of that word) hand in his. “I told her about you and me. Showed her your picture.”

“You did? How’d it go?” Jude shoved, digging his elbow into Connor’s side. The blood rushing to Connor’s neck had nothing to do with the residual throb of pain in his foot. Was Jude still mad with him? He couldn’t imagine what had possessed him to make that stupid crack about the Time of Day Lady. Jude rested the point of his chin on his shoulder. “Any freak outs about when I used to sleep over?”

He didn’t _seem_ mad—and were they _joking_ about this now? If so, Connor was game. Awkwardly, he countered with, “You mean your super-secret undercover mission to turn me gay?” and waited anxiously for Jude’s answering laugh. A little strained, but okay. “No,” he went on. “Dad left us for a bit, we talked. She actually listens, so…”

“I _like_ your mom.” Jude’s deadpan delivery was on point.

“Yeah, yeah. She’s okay.” Sweet revenge on his mind, Connor took a left turn into a new topic. “She said you looked ‘all grown up’.” Unrepentant dork, he let go of Jude’s hand and made air quotes. “Also, ‘cute as a button’.”

“Cute, oh my God.” Jude’s nose wrinkled and his eyes rolled. “Will it ever end?” To Connor, cute perfectly described this reaction.

Honour satisfied and wishing to demonstrate his gratitude for finding himself in his boyfriend’s longed-for presence, Connor looked for a way to increase their proximity. Jude’s hand had flopped back to rest on his knee, so he took hold of it again and made a fuss of brushing off the cookie crumbs stuck between his fingers. He did not really need an excuse to touch him. Through careful observation, he was beginning to understand that, underneath his reserve, Jude enjoyed the affection.

Connor removed a last crumb stubbornly clinging to the skin joining two knuckles. Jude’s brown eyes were glowing and a pink flush tinged his cheekbones. He looked up from under his eyelashes with the bold directness that said, more clearly than words, _I like you_. _You matter. I’m happy you’re here, with me._ Every time, the look filled Connor with courage and hope for the future.

He leaned over and planted a kiss on his boyfriend that was meant to communicate appreciation, esteem, regard. He definitely did not intend for it to go anywhere. Some hopes. Jude tasted like oatmeal and raisin cookies; Connor guessed that he did too. He licked sugar off his lips, searched his mind for possible distractions. “Do you want to do something— play a game maybe?”

Jude was in one of his little daydreams, staring directly at his mouth. With his top teeth, Connor scraped at the last few crystals of sugar on his lower lip. Sleepy eyes clearing, Jude fixed Connor with his patented, full beam _I’ve got your number_ glare. This led Connor briefly to consider shoving Jude off the bed and pinning him to the carpet.

Against this course of action was the fact that, despite the pills, his foot was still hurting like a bastard. He had an inkling of what he needed to do—find the stones to ask his boyfriend for answers to a couple of questions that were troubling him. Against _this_ was the fact that Jude—still watching him like he’d spotted the world’s biggest chocolate ice cream—was definitely, one hundred per cent about to pounce. Sorely tempted to let it go and give himself up to the pure solace of making out _with his boyfriend_ (unquestionably he was never getting tired of that word), instead Connor dragged up a world-weary sigh from the depths of his soul. “Um, hey, can I ask you something?”


	20. Chapter 20

At the change in Connor’s tone, Jude woke up fully. The pleasant afterglow of being kissed faded, and he switched to high alert once more. “Does it still hurt?”

Connor waved his hand impatiently. “I’m fine. Stop asking me. I was thinking about yesterday morning—in the garage—when you ran off like that.”

“What about it?” Jude said warily.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were upset? And the night before, when we said goodbye at your house. This thing of you being scared of my dad, you need to get over it.”

“It’s just…” _when I see him, I see that cut on your head and can’t get it out of my mind_. Jude was not frightened of Adam Stevens. He was mad but would not say it. It would not help Connor to know his boyfriend hated his dad. It was better if he assumed Jude was scared. That way, he could pretend to get over being scared, and eventually pretend to like the man.

Connor was following his own train of thought. “I can stand up to him, you know. He’s _my_ dad. You’ve got no reason to be scared, and it’s annoying when you’re, like, _skittish_ around him.”

Jude conceded this with a grave nod. Connor pressed the point. “You wouldn’t like it if I acted weird around your family. He’s got no problem with you. It’s not personal, the way he is.”

This was harder to accept. “What is his problem then?” asked Jude calmly, the voice of balance and reason.

“I dunno.” Connor sounded sad. Half-whispering, he said, “It’s about _me_. He wants me to be a—a normal kid or something.”

Connor was staring straight ahead, so Jude allowed himself a slight eye roll. “Because we’re boys, you mean,” he said neutrally.

“I dunno,” Connor repeated. “I mean, yeah, obviously. But it’s not _you_. He’d be the same if it was anyone else.”

Generously, Jude supposed this was meant to make him feel better. “Like Jeremy, f’rinstance?” he enquired, in an effort to lighten the mood.

“Sure, why not?” said Connor in a sly voice. “He’s hot.”

“Ew! Gross.” Jude grabbed the nearest thing to hand: a carved wooden box on the nightstand in which his boyfriend kept his most treasured bits and pieces of baseball crap. Lighter than it looked, it whacked down on the crown of Connor’s head with an earsplitting crack. “I’m sorry! Did that hurt?”

“Wood meets wood,” said Connor philosophically, rubbing the top of his head. Jude placed the box carefully where he found it and turned back to find his boyfriend gazing at him blankly. _Oh shit_. Scrambling off the bed, he made a dash for the open door. Even incapacitated, Connor’s reflexes were far superior to his own. Crashing to the floor, he lay half in, half out of the doorway, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his knees and face smushed into the carpet, dazed and weakened by giggles.

“HEY! Do I have to come up there?” The voice boomed like a loudspeaker. Jude sobered immediately. Sitting up, he kicked and squirmed, but the grip around his knees tightened playfully. Disliking the expression on Connor’s face, he struggled to free himself. More softly, Mr Stevens called up the stairs. “Just keep it down, okay?”

“Sor-ry,” Connor yodeled back, a sing-song, insolent edge to his voice. Finally letting go, he sketched an apology at Jude with upraised hands and eyebrows.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mr Stevens exploded like a mortar shell. “Watch yourself on that foot, for Chrissake!” From the safety of his bedroom, Connor sneered.

Confused and shaken by the tension reverberating up and down the stairwell, Jude picked himself up and moved on tiptoe back over to the bed. He couldn’t look at Connor, so he put his head in his hands and focused on getting his breath back. 

Next to him, the mattress creaked and dipped. Breathing hard, Connor threw an arm around his back. “My dad’s just, like, super-uptight all the time. Don’t let it get to you.”

The anxiety fogging Jude’s brain sharpened into annoyance. The weight of the arm on his shoulder added to his discomfort and he resisted an impulse to shrug. At school, he was used to seeing Connor square up to his peers in the hallways or on the sports field and best them every time. This disrespect towards his dad was new and puzzling.

Connor jiggled Jude’s arm. “Hey. He’s not like your moms, okay? It’s not a big deal. ”

Swagger was one thing, but it seemed to Jude that minimising Mr Stevens’ quick temper was playing a dangerous game. He had been present at the batting cages, in Lena’s office, in the hospital and—as Connor himself had pointed out—was not the one with reason to be scared. He wondered why his boyfriend was lying to him and a cold slug of dread twitched and squirmed into existence somewhere in the region of his diaphragm. Before it could start crawling its way towards his throat, he lifted his head and started swaying in time with the hand now caressing his upper arm. “What about _your_ mom?” he said lightly. “Is she uptight as well?”

“A little, maybe. Not so much since—” Connor’s breaking voice cracked on the high note. “Since she left.” The strokes up and down Jude’s arm increased in tempo.

Jude’s other arm was squashed between them. Putting his worries aside, he slipped it around Connor’s waist, pulled him in closer. They rested, hearts gradually slowing, each lost in their own thoughts.

Connor broke the silence. “But see, that’s another thing about my dad.”

“What is?”

“He’s sad, okay? Sad about Mom. He’s just not doing great right now. Last night he, like, needed me.”

Jude paraphrased words he’d heard from various adults over the years with reference to Callie. “It’s not your job to take care of him.” The pat advice didn’t work on Connor either.

“It kind of _is_.” Breaking loose, Connor shuffled backwards and stretched out, hands behind his head. “I can’t be worrying about you as well.”

“I never asked you to!”

“You stood up to him in the hospital and it _worked_. Why can’t you just be like that all the time?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, his back to Connor, Jude frowned and stared at the carpet, struggling to keep a lid on his mounting irritation. It was not pleasant to be so profoundly misunderstood. He was yet to learn that this was an inevitable consequence of hiding parts of himself from other people and not acting in alignment with his true feelings. “I do stand up to him. I went to get him at the park yesterday, didn’t I?”

“Yeah and then you ran off again. And then he starts blaming _you_ because I went after you without my crutches. Because he’s like that. He’s not going to get any better if you act like we’re doing something wrong all the time. We’re not doing anything wrong.” 

“I know that!”

“Do you? That stuff you said in the playground about not wanting to be kissed. You keeping score or something?”

“Of course not.”

“You make it sound like I push you into doing stuff. I never made you do a thing you didn’t want to. Remember?”

“I _do_.” Jude was being sincere. Connor had held his hand in the movie theatre, but he had not let go. Connor had kissed _him_ , it was true, but Jude had not pushed him away, not the first time, or the second. Having to watch while his more-than-friend made out with a girl did not count as being made to do something, although the sense of powerlessness was the same. They both had made mistakes and now here they were. 

Connor still needed reassurance that his past mistakes could be forgiven. “I know I messed up, with Daria…” His voice dropped, grew husky. “I thought we got past it.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that.” Jude could not stand to hear Connor blaming himself. Forgetting about the existence of Mr Stevens and Mama downstairs, he kicked off his sneakers and scooted up the bed. Leaning on an elbow, he pulled Connor’s face around so it was close to his. “I mess up too, all the time. I didn’t mean what I said yesterday, okay? I was just in a bad mood.” Immediately regretting his intrusion, he moved to put space between them. Connor’s hand came up to catch his wrist, holding it in place.

“You meant it,” he said placidly, a hot puff of air hitting Jude’s face.

Reassured, he breathed again. “Okay, I did. But only because I was mad with myself. I yelled at Mariana after you’d gone, and she didn’t deserve it. Then I got mad with you for chasing after me on that foot. I took it out on you. Let it go.”

“ _Me_ , let it go? I’m not even mad with you right now. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Fine. Here it is. I’m not scared of your dad. I just don’t like him. He hurt you. You might have let him off the hook, but it doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Well, okay,” Connor said drily. “You don’t have to pretend to like him to his face either, he’s not an idiot.” A percentage of the tension in Jude’s belly released like a deflating balloon. It was a relief to learn he did not have to pretend to like Mr Stevens. He was not confident in his ability to pull it off. “And sorry for being an ass before,” Connor went on. “I guess I’m just excited you’re here.”

“It’s not smart, Connor,” Jude said earnestly, “He won’t accept us if you keep breaking the rules. What if he doesn’t let me come over again? And it’s not just that.”

“I get it, okay? I mean, yeah, he’s pretty scary. I have to stand up for myself, you know? But I’ll cut it with the backchat when you’re over if it bothers you.”

“Just be careful, yes?” Jude voiced his biggest fear. “He could take it out on you after I’ve gone.”

“He doesn’t _hit_ me. Not anymore. And not—not like you got hit.”

Jude closed his eyes in vexation: it didn’t mean he wouldn’t one day. But this was the last thing he wanted to say to Connor. He breathed and waited for the icy slug to slither back down his throat. Connor breathed peacefully, and gradually the warm, raisin-scented atmosphere enveloping the two of them did its work. He opened his eyes again. “Good. So, we’ll both follow the rules, right? I can’t be worrying about you either.”

Connor peeled Jude’s sticky hand from his cheek and lined up their fingertips. One, two, three, four, five. Setting their palms together, he said, “So, we’re cool?”

Delighting in the contact, Jude noted that while his fingers were longer, his boyfriend’s handspan was bigger. “Cool.” He slipped his fingers between Connor’s, clasped and squeezed gently.

“I’ve been thinking. After summer school, when my cast is off, we’re going to have loads of free time. It’s going to be awesome, right? I want to have fun and hang out, you know?”

Jude did know, exactly.

“Thing is, I like…this.”

Jude liked it too. In spite of, or perhaps because of the risk entailed in illegal activity, getting up an hour earlier than usual to meet before school added zest to the pure pleasure of having Connor all to himself. Cycling through the empty streets anticipation caused his heart to skip. Disembarking at Anchor Beach when there was still hardly anybody around; locking up his bike with hands that fumbled more than usual; making his way to the place Connor designated secure from prying eyes; dodging the early morning cleaning crew—all of it added spice to the game. He liked waiting in the dim, cool stillness of the school theatre, scuffing his toe against the splintered plywood surface of the boards. Jude, usually, was first to show up, his boyfriend being at the mercy of a ride from his dad. So far, Adam—always happy to accept without question stories that fitted his world view—kept falling for tall tales about catching up on missed homework. One morning, overturning the order of things, Jude, making his way to his usual spot in the rabbit warren of nooks and corridors behind the stage, found himself grabbed by an elbow. A second later, hand over his mouth to muffle his squeak of protest, Connor had them both wrapped in the dusty-smelling folds of the stage curtain. In gales of laughter, they collapsed to the floor, Jude ending up astride Connor, hands either side of his head, blinking through the spinning dust motes and lozenges of sunlight dappling the polished floor. A few extra minutes were theirs to luxuriate in, before the sounds of arriving students and staff made their situation precarious.

Thinking about that snatched half hour, Jude’s shoulders and hips rotated of their own volition, pressing close to soak up the warmth radiating through Connor’s jeans and sweatshirt. Spreading his toes at the blissful sensation of full body contact, Jude nudged with a knee, wormed his ankle between Connor’s shins, finding a purchase so that he could pull himself up. Elbows either side of Connor's chest, gazing into his eyes, he gave himself up to the fragile experience of almost perfect happiness.

Other niggling concerns about school could wait. It was nearly summer. The boy he liked liked him back. They were boyfriends, and that was enough for now. Basking in the unexpected delight of Connor’s sole companionship, he would not waste time thinking ahead but, whenever he could, enjoy the frisson of being together in private, anxiety at an end.

He turned his head to look at the open door. Jude had learned a few things from sharing a room with Jesus for the past several months. He knew that sometimes parents forgot their kids were with their significant others. He knew that if you kept the door open, staying quiet so as not to attract attention, you were pretty safe from abrupt interruptions. Right now, Mr Stevens and Mama were all the way downstairs. They had some time. Experimentally, he dropped his head and touched his lips to Connor’s temple. Drawing back, he asked without words if he should go on. 

His boyfriend’s mouth, however, was drawn in a tense line. Underneath Jude, Connor’s leg and abdominal muscles tightened, almost as if he wanted to throw him off. When he spoke, his voice was compressed. “Thing is…” he repeated.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t need more stress in my life right now, you know?”

“Well, sure,” Jude said, the sting of rejection startling him into involuntary agreement. 

He was _not_ sure—of anything—and, right now, seeking clarification was out of the question. Jolted out of his trance, Jude forcibly talked himself into an appearance of calm. An echo of romantic instruction he’d overhead Brandon dishing out to Jesus, he settled on the phrase _just play it by ear_. He didn’t quite know what it meant, but it sounded sensible and jibed with his instinct to protect himself from further hurt. Keeping the peace was second nature to Jude. “Whatever you want,” he said evenly, sliding off Connor’s stomach. Rolling to the side and planting his feet on the carpet, as he stood up, his knees wobbled. On the pretence of shoving his feet back into his sneakers he sat on the floor, buying time until the tremors subsided. “Do you want to go outside now?”

“Fine,” came the reply. Connor’s voice was back to normal, but he didn’t seem in a hurry to move.

Jude finished tying his laces. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“’Kay. Meet you downstairs.”

 

 

“Okay, I think we’re done.” Adam swallowed a last mouthful of cold tea.

“Before I call Jude in, can we go over this one more time, make sure we have everything straight? So we’re saying: one school night, until Connor finishes physical therapy, then talk again when summer school’s done?”

“Yeah—I can’t be more definite right now. I still have to figure things out with Connor’s mom. She’s got a lot on with the move right now.”

“Well, it’s a big transition,” said Lena with studied lack of interest.  

She wasn’t going to ask, but all at once he was sick of keeping it to himself. What was the point? The down-payment was made. He and Connor had talked at lunchtime about driving over in a week or two to see his new bedroom. Besides, Lena had to hear sometime: she was his son’s Vice-Principal.

“L.A.,” he blurted.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s been travelling a lot, but Connor will have a base at the new place. We’re talking shared custody.”

Lena’s frosty politeness melted. “I’m so sorry, Adam. We did wonder—when you asked if Connor could stay over…”

“Yeah, that was a mess. She’s been away a lot, not her fault, it’s tough getting a foot back in the door in our business. But it’s been hard on Connor.”

“Hard on both of you, I expect.”

“Single parents, I gotta whole new respect.” He gave a soft laugh. There wasn’t much humour in it. Lena smiled back; a tide of self-disgust crept over him. He didn’t deserve anybody’s sympathy. “She thinks I screwed up. She’s right. It’s all my fault, Connor getting shot.”

“Adam, I know how you feel, but it’s no good thinking like that. We all share responsibility, and that includes Jude and Connor.”

Well, that was a steaming pile of horse shit. They were the adults, and the Adams Fosters had done nothing to create the situation that had nearly ended up with four dead kids. Nothing, perhaps, except taking in waifs and strays who were unknown quantities. But Adam was done blaming thirteen year olds for his own inadequacies. He would be more vigilant in future.

The Vice-Principal looked worried. “Shared custody—what does that mean for Connor…?” He straightened his back on the stool. Like she gave a rat’s ass about Connor.

“As of now, we’ve no plans to withdraw him from Anchor Beach. He’ll be starting eighth grade here and going to his mom’s every other weekend during term time.”

“I’m glad we won’t be losing him.”

“Yeah, me too,” he muttered, meaning more than he said. He stared at a sunbeam slanting across the kitchen counter, thinking it was time he switched on the lights, when he felt a touch on his arm.

“Want to hear our plans for the summer?” Lena’s eyes in the twilight kindled with warmth.

“Sure,” he said gratefully. He got up and went to the fridge. “Want a beer?”

“Why not?”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. “Okay, shoot.”

“We’re thinking of sending Jude away to camp for a bit. He’s comfortable mucking in with other kids, and he hasn’t had much opportunity to be outside in summer before now.”

“I guess he wouldn’t have. That’s a shame. What does he like to do?”

“Not too sure. We’re still getting to know him. He went out with Callie’s father on his boat one time, and came home full of how he’d been allowed to steer. He loves riding his bike, being independent. He’s not really one for competing. Of course, he never stops talking about everything Connor does.”

“Connor likes to fish…” Adam checked. Twelve month old information was no guide. Too much had happened since. He could not count on Connor agreeing to do anything with his old man. “Does Jude hike?”

“Hiking? I’ve no idea. I doubt it.”

“There are some day trails they can manage, they’ll need someone older to go with them.”

“That might be doable. Good suggestion. Jude loves to swim, of course.”

“Yeah. Connor’s a fan of the beach.” He felt pretty safe in saying that.

“Is he going to camp this year?”

“He’ll have to—at least some of the time. I’ve got no vacation left. But just days, I’m not sending him away. Money’s tight.”

“There’s no need for that. Won’t he be happier hanging out at our place?”

“I can’t ask you to take responsibility for him.”

“Adam. You know I love Connor, and not just because of Jude. Think about how long he’s been my student. He knows us, it makes sense. And…” Lena broke off abruptly.

“Spit it out.”

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying, he needs stability right now, and whatever’s comforting and familiar. So does Jude. And I’m home, I enjoy their company and happy to chaperone. So why not use me?”

“It just seems like a lot to ask. To keep asking.”

“Well you’re not asking, I’m offering. It’s obviously what they both want.”

“Connor’s too young to know what’s good for him. I know we don’t agree on this, but it’s up to me to decide what he needs.”

“You’re right, we don’t agree.” Lena touched his forearm again briefly. “And that’s okay, Adam. You’re his parent. I don’t get to tell you your job.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I just say one thing? As his Vice-Principal?”

She was full of advice when it suited her. But Anchor Beach had always done well by Connor; he would listen to what she had to say. He gave a begrudging nod. “Go for it.”

“Even if you’re right and I’m wrong, they need to learn sometime. Connor’s always had a heavy schedule, with his sports, and now baseball’s out for the time being. Would it hurt to let him have a say over how he wants to spend his free time this summer, within reason? He may not get this chance again before he finishes high school, and maybe not after that, if you’re thinking about scholarships.”

“I’ll think about it.” He paused. “And thank you—for looking out for him.”

“Any time. What about you—you’re here all summer?”

“Right here.” Adam glanced around the kitchen. The cabinet doors were looking shabby. The hall could do with a lick of paint, not to mention all the yard work he’d been neglecting. He’d have plenty to occupy him around the house when Jude was over.

 

 

That evening, Adam stared at his laptop screen, thirty tabs open, head swimming: a drowning man clutching at straws. Lena had mentioned a book, leaflets, but he’d reached his limit for advice-taking for one day. Out of sheer pigheadedness, he would do his own research thank you very much.

Her final suggestion, just before she went to call Jude in from the backyard, was playing on his mind. “Do you have someone to talk to about…all this? Connor’s mom?”

He’d shaken his head, hoping the sadness on his face was not too apparent.

“What about family—or a friend?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ve got it.”

“You know, Adam, you can come talk to me—or Stef—any time.”

It wasn’t going to happen: he’d imposed enough already—the woman had five kids and a full-time job of her own and however politely she might offer the role of confidante they were never going to be friends. They were just two parents navigating the tricky waters of adolescence, suddenly thrown together by this peculiar relationship between their kids. They had nothing in common and none of this was new to her, only to him. She had all the knowledge and right now he had nothing to offer in return. All his experience as a father to this point was worthless. In starting over with Connor, he was faced with getting to know him again from scratch, and he had no idea if he was up to the task.

He switched tabs to his email. A draft was open. 

_Lori,_

_Long time, no hear. That’s on me, sorry. You guessed it, I lost your number. Do you have Karen’s details by any chance? It’d be good to catch up anyway. Call me if you get this, please._

He slammed the lid shut without hitting send and got up to pour himself an Irish.


	21. Chapter 21

In the courthouse Connor smiled because no matter what happened from this point on, Jude was safe. Callie was adopted and Jude was going to be okay. So when his boyfriend took him by the hand and led him over to the wall—in full view of anyone who cared to look—he waited, a question in his eyes. He’d been patient. Patient with his dad _and_ his boyfriend. Sure, he was tired of waiting for his dad to stop being uncomfortable, looking at him with that hurt expression, as though Connor had done something to him. But that wasn’t all. He was tired, honestly, of waiting for Jude to stop holding him at arm’s length. To kiss and touch hungrily but always, always keep some part of himself unreachable. Now Jude had Callie, and Connor needed to take care of himself for a while.

He rehearsed the rationale for his decision one more time. Clinging to his resolve, he considered his mom’s new house, the nice yard, the park down the street with the basketball hoop. Dad’s shit was getting really old: leaving was the only thing that made sense: maybe Jude would visit him and Mom would let him stay over in the guest room: the rest of the time he’d get his life back, focus on his sports and his grades: Jude would come around; he would not start to resent his boyfriend as well as his dad.

His resentment toward Adam had peaked the day before yesterday waiting for him to get back from dropping Jude home. For ten minutes Connor paced in his room. Yanked out of a deep state of pleasure, preoccupation, concentration—not even a chance for a proper goodbye—he was hyped up like he’d just run a race. Breathing slowly, he worked on talking himself down, expecting his body to respond in its normal, predictable way. By the time his dad arrived his heart would be at a resting state, and they could talk. Connor would point out that his room was private: his dad was supposed to knock, even when the door was ajar: that was the rule—his _dad’s_ rule. At the thought, his heart rate increased. _Not fair, not fair, not fair_ went the chant, louder with each repetition, keeping time with the pounding in his chest. Downstairs, a key sounded in the lock, the front door clicked shut. Connor’s stomach dropped twenty floors, his heart tried to hammer its way out of his chest and his cheeks flamed. _Why?_ He wasn’t ashamed, had nothing to be embarrassed about. Betrayed by his ordinarily reliable bodily reactions, he was hit with an odd sensation of events sliding out of his control; it was not a pleasant feeling.

 _Get down here, please. Sit there. I want answers._ Connor did not get to talk; he was a disappointment, a liar, a sneaky little bastard. Adam had been right all along; the boys were way too young to be in a relationship. These sorts of shenanigans proved it. The Adams Foster kid—for the first time in weeks, Jude was stripped of his name—started this, didn’t he? _Answer me_. Connor’s valiant efforts over the past two months—follow the rules, be good, ignore his innate appetite for honesty, subdue his growing instinct to tell the truth about himself at every possible opportunity, step around his dad’s feelings—all of it gone for nothing. Staggering from the gut punch of repeat disappointment, nonetheless he fought back. He had never promised his dad anything. _We weren’t doing anything wrong_. Brain short-circuiting under the disapproving glare, he shut down, outrage ballooning in his chest with every intrusive question. _How long has this been going on? I welcomed the pair of you into this house and this is how you repay me. You let me down, Connor._ Adam would not let it go.

In the hot stillness of the living-room, hands curling into fists, Connor bowed his head against the peremptory demands to know exactly how far things had progressed. He _would not_ share the most cherished, intimate moments of his relationship. _His_ business and no one else’s to know that two minutes earlier, his dad would have walked in on a different scene: Connor on top of Jude, not the other way around. The harsh voice battering at him was indistinguishable from the night in the hospital. For a moment, Connor was back there, head swimming, high on the shock and the morphine the paramedics had administered in the ambulance; terrified, shrinking away from the figure looming over the gurney. He was not terrified now. Nor was his dad screaming at him. He sounded like one of Connor’s more feeble teachers, drivelling on about how _upset_ he was and how he’d _trusted_ them. It was sickening. “Connor, listen to me,” he droned. “I just need to know what’s going on.”

Eyes squeezed shut, curled over on the couch, he pressed his knuckles into his mouth to keep from yelling back, _Why?_ _What the fuck is wrong with you?_

“Just talk to me, goddammit!” His dad’s voice whined like a little baby and that was all it took. The last of Connor’s fear dissolved in a head rush of pure power. He wasn’t going to be able to hold back, and he didn’t care. He was back in control now. It was as easy as stepping onto his board at the top of a long, straight slope, nothing to stop him until he reached the bottom. Glorious freedom. There was a kind of beauty in not caring anymore. From here he could go anywhere he chose. He lifted his head, fixed his dad with a curious eye.

“Okay, dad. Talk about _what_ , exactly? What would have happened if you hadn’t walked in on us?” _Rude_ , by the way, he thought idly. His dad was supposed to have been clearing the gutters. I mean, he’d _said_ that was what he was going to do. They’d gotten carried away thinking he was all the way on the other side of the house. Carried away now by his ridiculous train of thought, possibly a little hysterical, Connor fought to keep his mouth from curling up at the edges. It would not do to burst into giggles. Adam was quiet at last, looking disconcerted.

“I want—for crying out loud, Connor, do I have to spell it out? I just need to know you’re keeping yourself safe.”

 _Bam, there it was._ “Seriously?”

“It’s a serious question. Do you even know how?”

Connor wasn’t the same person he had been before he got shot. That person liked a boy and held hands with him and couldn’t help kissing him. That person missed having sleepovers with his best friend and talking about Star Wars Commander for hours on end and lay in bed at night indulging romantic thoughts about leaning over to give him a good night peck on the lips.

Nor was he the same person he had been in the weeks after getting shot. That person wanted to walk down the school hallways alongside his boyfriend and throw around a frisbee on the beach with his boyfriend and hit pause on his first person shooter game to steal a kiss from his boyfriend and inhale where his boyfriend’s hair came to a point on the back of his neck and end the night on the couch cuddled up to his _boyfriend_. That person had a body that was starting to respond in all kinds of interesting ways, produce any number of intriguing sensations, but it was all happening just to him. That person had a rich fantasy life but not much (yet) to relate it to. It was theoretical (mostly).

At the end of the summer, two months into a relationship with Jude, the boy he now loved, Connor was not the same person. He still liked video games and the beach, holding hands and kissing. But romantic thoughts and jerking off in his room to speculative fantasies were distant memories (mostly), consigned to a partition of his hard drive designated B.P. (Before Prom). Connor didn’t need them: he had Jude. In the current epoch of endless, unstructured vacation days, whenever they could, they communicated with lips and tongues and hands and skin. The rest of the time they communicated with looks and gestures and gentle touches and words. A lot of words. Connor discovered himself—what he liked—with Jude and Jude did the same. There was no shyness or hesitation or embarrassment in their private talk: they trusted one another and the only rules they needed were the ones they chose for themselves.  

Lighter than air, Connor coasted on his skateboard towards his doom. “You think we’re fucking each other.”

His father’s eyes stretched wide. “Don’t you _dare_ use that kind of language in front of me. I’ll…” Lost for words, Adam stepped backwards, blundering into the TV. Connor tasted the word in his mind. _Fucking_. Underneath the icy calm, the laughter bubbled up again. For the first time in his life, his father dwindled in front of him and all he could see was the man. He looked smaller, uncertain, out of his depth.

“Why not?” Reason was what his dad liked. A rational argument. “You say it all the time.”

Adam sat down on the recliner as though his legs weren’t working properly. Connor talked on: logical, inexorable. “Or is it okay when you do it because it’s just cursing, you know, not _real_. Not real like if I was fucking Jude and he was fucking me.”

“Connor, stop.”

“But I guess to you, even that wouldn’t be real, would it. It means nothing, when you do it, right? Like when you fucked that girl in high school.”

“Right now. I’m not kidding.”

“Why? What are you going to do? Thrash me, like you used to? Good luck trying.”

“I will ground your ass into the middle of next month if you don’t stop talking right now.”

“Go ahead. Did you fuck around on Mom—is that why she left? I wouldn’t put anything past you. One rule for you and one for the rest of the world.”

“For the last time…”

“You keep saying that, but what are you going to _do_? Face it, dad. You’ve lost. It’s over. You can’t do _anything_ to me anymore because I don’t give a shit what you think. You’re pathetic and miserable and you want me to be miserable too. But I’m not. I just can’t stand the sight of you.” A smooth glide to a halt, and with that it was over.

His hands uncurled, trembling as the muscles in his forearms twitched and released. His heart was no longer thudding; all the fight had drained out of him. The curtain fluttered in a breeze from the open window, drying the moisture on his temples. It hit him all at once, tears pricking the back of his eyelids. He was afraid again. Not of his dad, but of what he’d just done, what he might do next.

He looked around the familiar room as though seeing it for the first time: the widescreen TV, the imitation gas log fire, the ugly furniture. There was nothing here for him any longer. If he stayed something inside him would die. He would be alive only with Jude and it wasn’t enough. He needed, wanted, _loved_ Jude—and maybe, finally, it was time to stop waiting for Jude to come to him and just _tell_ him already—but he needed more than just Jude. Connor loved his dad, ached with misery for the way he’d just hurt him, but it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t fair. He was sick of being the strong one, of taking care of his dad’s feelings, never knowing, always wondering what he was thinking.

At home, all summer, he fretted under the sidelong, measuring glances, fatigued by stilted attempts at conversation interspersed with dissatisfied (at least that’s how they seemed to Connor) silences. During meals, he complied using the strategy he had been taught, answering questions directly, with no stepping around the facts or cringing over-eagerness to please ( _the beach was good, I taught Jude to dive, yes we put on sunscreen, we’re not ten)._ He was not asked to enlarge upon his answers. Politenesses dispensed with, his dad talked baseball, soccer, golf. Unsafe topics—even TV and music carried potential land mines—were given a wide berth. Up in his bedroom, Connor’s less active pursuits—making stuff, legos, drawing—hobbies encouraged when he was younger—now somehow bore the taint of his dad’s disapproval. Once, he had referred (distastefully it seemed to Connor) to Jude’s ‘artistic’ nature. Not to rile his dad, he kept quiet and bore the self-disgust in silence. Construction projects littered his floor, abandoned half-way through, enthusiasm dulled. He dithered about making changes to his posters. The petty anxieties of procrastination were not his style and he avoided self-reflection, existing for hours spent with Jude. Away from him, he subsisted in the gaps between messages. His boyfriend, so much was obvious, had more than enough to occupy himself when Connor wasn’t there. Weekend trips to L.A. brought shopping expeditions for new clothes, which he took home and wore defiantly. Hugging Jude goodbye at each parting—closing his eyes to Adam’s failed attempts to fake indifference—hurt too much. When he gave up trying to make a stand, what hurt most of all was noting that Jude’s surprise was tinged with relief.

The prospect of being home with his dad all week and every other weekend until he finished high school stretched in front of him, a life sentence. The constant discomfort, like a pair of sneakers grown too tight, left him flayed, frazzled, ready to snap. It put him on edge, primed to snarl mean things at complete strangers who got in his way. He feared losing his temper with his boyfriend, unwittingly revealing his unhappiness and scaring him away. He wanted a rest. He wanted to be tucked in bed; he wanted the fridge to be stocked with his favourite juice; he wanted his laundry to be clean on the occasions he forgot to put it in the hamper. He wanted his mommy.

Adam sighed. “I don’t know, Connor. What do you think I should do?”

 _Don’t ask me: not my job_. He couldn’t keep doing this. “You need to let me go.”


	22. Chapter 22

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe—maybe you _should_ go live with your mom.” 

The world closed in for a second, pit-bottom blackness, but Jude was still talking. Still talking and looking at him, really looking, with that open, full beam glow of his that streamed out, surrounding both of them and warming Connor from the inside out. _You matter. I’m happy you’re here, with me._ The fear receded, and he listened intently. 

It all made sense, what Jude was saying. He understood, finally. “And I want you to have that. Because…”

_Say it._

“I love you.”

Connor smiled because no matter what happened from this point on, right now, he was home safe. 

“I love you, too.”

 

In the middle of a priceless, uninterrupted Saturday morning, Adam Stevens was not getting on with one of the million chores on his list. Nor was he relaxing with the newspaper over his second cup of coffee. In his living-room, he hovered on the edge of the couch, tossing his cell phone from hand to hand, occasionally letting it spin towards the ceiling before catching it again. He bounced onto his toes and began pacing short runs from wall to wall, bounded on one side by the coffee table and the widescreen television on the other. 

After a few minutes psyching himself up, he brought up his recent calls. He checked again his one missed call from the night before; an unfamiliar number, but he knew to whom it belonged. He’d received a quick reply ( _I’ll call you, L x_ ) to an email sent two nights earlier, the same one that had been sitting in his drafts folder all summer. He made a new contact. Unsure of the surname, he left it as simply ‘Lori’. That done, he paused, thinking over his opening line, then hit the number. Most likely it would go straight to voicemail. 

“Hi.” A breathy female voice, overpoweringly familiar. In an instant Adam was transported thirty years back in time. 

“Hey,” he managed to choke out.

“Who is this? Wait, don’t tell me.” An infinitesimal pause. “Adam freakin’ Stevens—is that _you_?”

A shit-eating grin spread itself across his face. “Yeah. Um, hi, Lori. Long time no hear.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Never thought I’d hear that dreamy voice again in my lifetime.”

He hung on every word, a frisson of pleasure running down his spine. There were Saturday morning noises in the background, a lawnmower in the distance. Lori must be outside. “You sound exactly the same,”he said wistfully.

“You should see me now, fat as a hog.” 

So that was how it was going to be. “Yeah?” he drawled. “Sounds hot.”

“Oh, stop it. What about you? Still in shape I bet.”

Spirits lifting, he laughed out loud at that one. “Yeah but bald as a coot.” 

Lori’s delighted chuckle wafting down the line warmed the chunk of ice lodged in his gut. “Bullshit. Your granddad had a full head of hair when they put him in the ground.”

“Okay, you got me.”

They fell back into their ancient, flirtatious rhythm with surprising ease. After a minute or two of such pleasantries Lori got serious. He’d always admired her ability to turn on a conversational dime.  

“Adam, honey, I’ve no idea where Karen is. She dropped off the face of the earth again.”

“Oh, right. Okay.” The realisation hit him. _It was you I really wanted to talk to anyway._ He didn’t even have to say it. Before he had time to formulate a better response, Lori’s voice sounded in his ear again.

“But I’m here for ya, bud. What do you need?”

There was no good place to start. He didn’t know what he was looking for, all he knew was that he wanted to keep Lori on the line. He had to leave to pick up Connor in twenty minutes. Wandering out of the door, across the hall and into the kitchen, he switched off his overheated brain and listened to the tone of Lori’s words, not their content. The first thing that popped into his head had nothing to do with asking for help and everything to do with what he needed his oldest friend to hear. “My marriage is over.”

“Oh God, hon, I’m so sorry.” He heard an intake of breath and waited, his heart pounding. “And, uh,…” Lori’s silvery voice dropped an octave. “Same here,” she said huskily. 

Self-centred as always, his heart leapt. “When?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Last year.” Lori’s subdued voice rebuffed further questions, but Adam, curiosity taking over, did not notice. 

“Kids?” he demanded.

“One. She’s five.” Lori answered his unasked question. “She’s with her dad today.” Now, the pain in her voice was evident, and his conscience smote him. Still, he did not regret asking. He pictured a garden, a swing seat, Lori in the sun with her coffee, pulling herself together and counting her blessings. “Enough about me,” she said briskly. “How’s your little boy? Connor, right?”

“Not so little. Thirteen now.”

“Oh my gosh, I guess he must be. Gee whiz. When did we get so old, huh?” The rhetorical pause stretched out. 

“He’s out this morning. With a—a friend.” At the last moment, he stepped back from the brink.

“Yeah?” He heard tapping, a light tattoo, a pen or pencil on teeth or table. Perhaps he’d caught her in the middle of doing the crossword or writing a shopping list. She gave a tiny sigh. “Adam, what gives? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

It dawned on him that from most people he would interpret this as impatience and clam up. From her, perhaps because it was what he needed, he heard warmth, sympathy and genuine affection. “He’s leaving, Lori. Connor’s leaving to be with his mom. I drove my wife away and now my boy can’t stand to be around me either. He’s not with a friend today.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, sucked in a breath and took the plunge. “He’s with his boyfriend.” He waited. 

“Uh huh?”

All at once the words started pouring out of him, a babble made up of all his confusion and hurt over the past few months. “He stayed with me just to be near this kid, like he’s more important than his own family.” Hearing the whiny note in his voice, he faltered. 

“Go on, honey, I’m listening.”

He propelled himself forward. “I—I nearly lost him, Lori. Some deadbeat asshole parent of one of his school friends _shot_ him, for fuck’s sake.” He recounted the nightmarish events of that night, wasted precious minutes venting his feelings about the state of the nation. Eventually he worked his way back around to the matter in hand. “It was all my fault. All of it. I couldn’t see it at first, but I do now.”

Lori’s response was immediate and bracing. “Adam, that’s ridiculous. Did you put a gun in this guy’s hand?”

“I should have…” _seen what was going on._

“Should nothing. _Men_. Why d’you insist—” 

Pulled up short by Lori’s peevish complaint, Adam was jerked out of his own head for an instant. He got a vivid mental picture of her cool, appraising eyes, lips pressing together as she reconsidered her words, head tilted to one side. Half-laughing, he demanded, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Forget it, it’s my stuff. It’ll keep. Seriously, Adam, I’m just so glad your boy’s okay—he is, isn’t he?” 

Reassured by the implication there would be a next time, he took courage and searched his heart for the whole truth. “He’s doing okay now. The foot’s healed, no permanent damage. I think he’s getting over it, you know, emotionally. Fuck, Lori, I don’t know. I try to help him. The problem’s me. I was so torn up about it when it happened, and it all got mixed up in my head, you know, with the relationship with this other boy.”

“Well, jeez Adam, with the separation it’s a lot for one year.”

“I know, right? And every time I try to talk to him, the worse it gets. I sound like an asshole, I can hear myself. I keep messing up. He thinks I’m, like, some disgusting homophobe or something.”

Lori had never been one to pull her punches. “Well, are you?”

“What?”

“How _do_ you feel?”

“I wish I knew. Shut out, is how I feel. Out of my depth, like I was hoping he wouldn’t be dating yet and if he was, I wouldn’t be dealing with it on my own.”

“Well, okay, but that’s not really what I was asking. Come on, Adam, this is me you’re talking to. You think I can’t tell when you’re being, uh…”

“What?”

“Disingenuous.”

“So you think I’m prejudiced too.”

“How would I know?”

“You know me—where I’m from—I’m not like _them_.” 

“Sure. The Adam I know’s a smart guy, and a sweetheart underneath all the big talk and keeping everybody at arms length. But I’ll tell you what else I know—that you and me and Danny were friends right through from grade school and then in senior year you guys weren’t. And that when I wrote you about him, you never wrote me back a word about it. What I _think_ is that you were blindsided and thought there’d be time to patch it up.”

“You don’t think I’ve felt shitty about it ever since? Get to the point, Lori.” 

“Back home they wondered whether there was more to it.” 

“Like?”

“Oh, come on, Adam. It’s a small town, you know how they love a story and if there isn’t one, they’ll spin it out of hot air and a little sprinkling of sugar.” 

“Well then, tell me. Like I give a shit what that place said about me twenty-five years ago.”

So Lori told the story. It was a good story of its kind and she told it well: of the Stevens and the Arthurs boys, bound for college, bright futures ahead of them, and how everybody was certain one of them would settle down with nice Lori Jacobson and the other most likely with the slutty girl from that family of incomers, Karen Something, who some people said wasn’t quite right in the head but always seemed pretty sharp when it came to looking out for Karen; and from that to what a sad way of going on it was when Adam who always seemed like a decent enough lad and got that scholarship all the way over in Miami never came home again, not for five years and then only when his father dropped dead (and a blessed release for poor dear Bitsy Stevens, put-upon as she was); and as for young Daniel, bringing shame on his parents like that and they stood by him, not many would, then to take his own life, it didn’t bear thinking about; and suppose behind it all was those boys carrying on at school and right into college and they always did seem real close come to think of it.

“Don’t tell me you believed any of this horse shit?”

“What kind of person do you think I am—I knew you, remember? If I’d seen you, talked face to face, maybe I’d have told you what they were saying, but in a letter? No way. So I made up my own mind, which is that it wasn’t any of my damn business.” 

“I’m not _gay_ , Lori. Dan and I were friends, then we kind of weren’t. He wasn’t a fucking saint, let’s not forget, any more than I am.” It was all true, but Adam had loved Dan, and that was true as well. 

“So why didn’t you stay in touch? Why not come to the funeral?”

Adam slid off the stool and stood in front of the fridge opening and closing the door. The chill soothed his frayed nerves. Here it was: the question he’d avoided for twenty years. _I was upset, he hurt my feelings_ wasn’t going to cut it. 

“I’m not gay,” he repeated stubbornly. He needed her to hear it. 

“I don’t care if you’re gay, Adam! I don’t care if you’re not. It doesn’t matter what you are or were—or what he was. If you and Danny had something, I’d have been a little surprised, but it would have made more sense than some of the choices you made. Don’t you get it? I was _so mad_ with you. You just _left_. I ended up wondering if he told you first, in high school, and you couldn’t handle it, and that maybe…”

“That maybe I am an asshole. _That guy_ from a hick town who thinks he’s smarter than everybody else but never really got out.” The self-pity overwhelmed him. “And now you think I treat my own kid like he needs fixing because I’m an ignorant son of a bitch who can’t change. Right?” 

“How would I know?” Lori repeated. 

The simplicity and directness of the question penetrated Adam’s narcissism for the first time in weeks. He managed to see himself how he appeared—not to the world but to Connor—and grasp that was all that mattered and the world could go fuck itself. He struggled to catch up to himself, tell the truth while it was clear, before a trick of the light obscured it again. 

“This boyfriend of his, he riles me up and I just can’t put my finger on why. And he’s a nice enough kid, I’ve gotten to know him a little. He stands up for Connor. I thought he was sneaky at first, but he’s straight as an arrow…” He stumbled, but the silence on the other end of the line remained unbroken. _Fuck it_. Lori would know he didn’t mean anything by it. “Jude— that’s his name—to listen to Connor, he’s the moon and fucking stars, but somehow we just seem to rub each other the wrong way. But that’s not the worst of it. Me and Connor, we were buddies, he looked up to _me_.” The needy whine in his voice was embarrassing but he ploughed on. If he didn’t say this now, he never would. “I’ve been jealous of a thirteen-year-old boy and made my son’s life a misery because the thought of them together unsettles me.”

“Why?”

Hooked on the revelation of a clear feeling emerging from the murky morass of his subconscious, Adam missed the tone in Lori’s voice. “Why jealous? Didn’t I just say…” He broke off, lost in thought. Jealous of Jude didn’t seem quite right. After all, Jude hadn’t taken Connor away from him: Adam had driven him away all by himself.

“No,” said Lori, enunciating her words precisely, like she always had when keeping a tight hold of her patience. “Why does it unsettle you?”

“I don’t fucking know, do I? It’s new to me, all this. These kids today…”

“What about them?” 

The feeling was real. “I _am_ jealous. Of Connor. He knows who he is and he’s got the guts to stand up for himself.” _Stand up to me_. He shied away from the thought, not ready to go there. 

“ _Why does it unsettle you_?”

“Jeez, Lori. Is it so crazy that I can’t handle the thought of my son having sex with another boy?”

A slight intake of breath whistled down the phone. “They’re having _sex_? He told you that?”

“No.” Adam sighed. “He won’t say because we’re not really talking, but I don’t think so.”

“Would you be asking the question if he was dating a girl?”

“Well, it’s kind of moot,” he evaded. “He seems pretty sure he’s gay.”

“That’s not the point, Adam. You need to start talking about this. Isn’t that why you called?”  

 _Fair enough_. He marshalled his recalcitrant thoughts into line. “My dad was pretty hard line,” he mused. Warming up, he went on. “You think you’re getting out clean, right? Tell yourself you’re progressive and what not. I don’t live in a small town, haven’t for twenty-five years, but you don’t get to choose what stuff stays with you. What people are going to think, how they’re going to treat him different.” 

“So _you_ treat him different, huh? What’s that about?”

A sickening wave of self-reproach swept over him, like it had at the Father’s Day brunch. “I don’t know. Guess I am just a shit bag.”

 “Oh, get over yourself, Adam. This is about your son, quit playing the victim.” 

He almost burst out laughing. The lack of bullshit was exhilarating. How had it taken him so long to get in contact? “Okay, okay. You’re right. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself.”

“Go on.”

“I tell myself I’ve been making an effort to get right with him, but I’m wrapped up in worrying about myself—what I’m doing that’s wrong and why I can’t ever say the right thing. I stay in my comfort zone and don’t give him what he needs, because it’s easier. I haven’t been loving him right, and then I feel guilty and we just end up fighting and drifting further apart.” It struck him that he could have been describing the breakdown of his marriage. Putting that to one side, he maintained focus on Connor. “I miss the hell out of him, and I don’t know how to start connecting with him again. And he’s so fucking young. And yes, since you ask, I would want to know if I thought he was having sex with a girl at thirteen—I’m his _dad_. At least then I’d know the territory. I want to help him, not invade his privacy, but it’s my job to be concerned about his health and safety.” 

“Well, that’s a start. I’m proud of you, Adam.”

Anxiously, he asserted, “I love my son, he doesn’t disgust me. You believe me, don’t you? I’m not doomed to be an asshole my whole life?”

“For what it’s worth, if my kid came out to me at thirteen—any age—it’d take some thinking through. It’s an adjustment for all of you. You talk to anyone else about this?”

He didn’t _have_ anyone else, that was the whole fucking point. He needed Lori to hear his side. “I let them hang out here, gave them rides and stuff.” The fretfulness was back. “And he repays me by breaking the rules again. I just want him to be safe, look out for him, you know?”

Lori had known him forever; better than anyone else, she would remember that Adam’s house had not been a safe or welcoming place. “Yes,” she said soberly. “I do know. Listen to me, hon, you need cut yourself some slack. From what you’ve told me so far, it sounds to me like you’re a good dad. Good enough anyways.”

“I used to think so,” he said gloomily. Over the past ten years, stuck with a career path he didn’t choose and a wife he couldn’t seem to make happy, Adam’s success in getting Connor to love him had been a source of constant comfort and joy. “How am I supposed to know what to do if he won’t even talk to me?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Adam. I take it back. Is this more self-pity I’m hearing right now?”

Mutinous, he muttered, “So what if it is?” 

“Well, get over it, or I’m hanging up on you right now. The shooting could have been a tragedy, but it wasn’t. Maybe Connor didn’t think about the consequences, but I guess he had his reasons.”

“If I’d sassed my dad the way Connor sasses me, I—” The words jumped into his head and he pulled up short. _I probably wouldn’t be here now._ Words way too melodramatic to say out loud but to the terrified thirteen-year-old that still existed inside Adam, they felt true.

He could practically feel Lori rolling her eyes down the phone. “Um, excuse me? I think you must be having a senior moment. Because I remember you squaring up to that asshole in front of a bunch of his drinking buddies and telling him not to come home until he slept it off.”

Bitterly disappointed, Adam took refuge in sullen silence. Standing up to his dad had been an empty gesture, born of fear and frustration, not courage. The man had never needed an excuse. He saved it all up and took out his humiliation on his wife or son later, stone-cold sober. It was no different with Connor. Maybe he wasn’t a total bigot, like his dad, but he was still disgusting. 

Lori was still talking. “You’ve made mistakes, sure. We all do. You have to forgive yourself.” 

Finally, Adam snapped. “Oh _come on_ , Lori. You seriously believe that?” He really wanted to know. He didn’t care if she was affronted by his bluntness, he needed home truths, not Californian New Age bullshit. 

The voice on the other end of the line became guarded. “Well, yes, actually. But it doesn’t matter what I believe, does it? I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sorry for what?” he snarled. The last thing he wanted, or deserved, was anybody’s pity.

“Jeez, Adam. Not sorry for you, you dumb fuck. I’m sorry for the crap you’ve had to deal with. Sorry for being glib. Just sorry.”

“Okay,” he said grudgingly. 

“I don’t know everything, and I’m going to say some stupid stuff. So don’t be so prickly. I said I was here for you, and I meant it.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. 

“Damn straight. So here’s my opinion, and you can take it or leave it. You might wish you’d had a couple more years of him just being your little kid. That’s natural for a parent. You’re not so special, huh?” She waited for him to grunt agreement. “Now Connor being gay might not be what you wanted for him. Well, you’re going to have to get over that nonsense, whatever it takes. I can sure as heck understand why you wish things had happened differently. But in all of this fighting, and misunderstanding and whatnot, what I’m hearing is that your son told you something important about himself. That says something in case you missed it. He _wants_ you in his life, Adam, and whatever you think he’s doing that’s risky, or disobedient, or whatever, it’s not about you. He’s not abandoning you. You’re his dad, you know? He wants to love you, and take it from one who knows, you big dork, you’re not unloveable. So what can’t you forgive yourself?”

The depths of his self-disgust finally revealed themselves. Back in the living-room, he threw himself on the couch and confessed his worst fear. “I’m afraid of turning into my dad, Lori, and I fucking can’t stand myself.” 

“Adam Stevens, listen to me right now. _You are not your dad_. You never were, you hear me? Sweetie, it’s going to be okay.”

Something warm uncurled in his chest. The chunk of ice melted away to nothing and his words slowed to a trickle. “I got in touch because I figured if anyone could understand, it’d be you and Kar.” His voice rose again, cracked. “I can’t let anything happen to him. I can’t lose my son. Not Connor.” 

“Tell me about him.”

“Oh God, Lori, he’s just the best kid.”

“Yeah, sweetie, I bet he is. Does he take after you?”

The warmth in his chest spread throughout his body. He stopped to think about the question. He pressed his finger and thumb against his eyes to no avail. The waiting tears spilled down his cheeks. 

“I guess, a little, yeah.”

“Baseball?”

“He’s a better hitter than I ever was at that age. But I don’t know. He seems to prefer soccer these days.”

A low whistle from Lori, softball star. “That’s rough.”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, for once not wanting to get distracted with talk of sports. 

“There’s more to life, huh?”

“Yeah.”

 

In the courthouse, Connor was wrapped around Jude, in full view of anyone who cared to look. He no longer felt tired. He was full of energy, brimming over like he could run a marathon on the spot. Maybe a half-marathon. Connor was not selfish or calculating, but he liked to win. When he set his eyes on a prize, he prided himself on his ability to be patient, plan out a course of action and adapt to changing circumstances on the fly. So, in his moment of victory, he couldn’t help but indulge a tiny, unworthy glint of satisfaction for having succeeded in reining himself in, not crowding Jude, giving him the space and time he needed. The wait was over, and this was his reward. Jude had _seen_ him and opened his heart. 

He knew his boyfriend. Jude was loving and kind, but the hurt was always there, a part of him. It hurt less when he was with Connor. Connor understood this because it was the same for him. The wait had been worth every moment. For two days, he had been going back and forth, half of him hoping Jude would beg him to stay and the other half terrified in case he did. Because whether Connor refused and left anyway, or stayed for Jude, either way, sooner or later, it would mean the end of everything. Right now, in this moment, they were okay.

Callie’s voice, full of light, reached his ears. “Get a room.” 

The tension broke, and they smiled into each other’s necks. 

“Connor, d’you need a ride home?” That was Stef.  

He inhaled one last time, revelling in the feeling of the thin frame pushing into him, his boyfriend’s reluctance to let go. He moved his hands up and down Jude’s ribcage, then peeled himself away. “No thanks. My dad’s coming to get me. He’s probably already here.” He lowered his voice. “Call me later?”

“I will.” Jude’s brown eyes glowed like Callie’s. Brother and sister clasped hands and were surrounded again by a flood of well-wishers. Connor smiled and wandered out into the parking lot.  

 

Across town, Adam checked the time. _Shit_. “I gotta go,” he said regretfully. “Connor’s waiting for me at the courthouse.”

“Don’t rush off…” 

Every instinct was telling him to not to end the conversation, so he waited, bouncing on his toes and jingling his keys in his pocket. The silence on the other end of the line unspooled, this time fraught with tension. He made a snap decision.

“I’m getting in the car and putting you on speaker. Hold on.” Reversing quickly out of his driveway, he spun the steering wheel and headed at twenty-five miles an hour down the suburban street. “Okay, what’s up?”

“Nothing. I just had a thought.”

“What?” He remembered Lori’s caution. At eighteen it had driven him nuts. At forty-two it was endearing. “Spit it out, girl,” he said, injecting the words with all the affection and gratitude he could muster. 

“Connor’s going to L.A. in a week or two, right?”

“That’s the plan.” Adam sighed. “He’s got to get settled and everything set up before the start of the new school year.”

“So, what about you?”

“I’ll be taking him there and then coming straight back here.” 

“You’re going to be in San Diego.”

“Where else would I be? Come on, Lori, stop holding out on me, it’s not a long drive.”

“You know how I said my kid was with her dad? Well, that’s every other weekend, except this month she’s staying with him for a week because I’ve got a business trip coming up.”

“Oh yeah?” Seventy-five per cent of Adam’s attention was on navigating a tricky right turn. Vaguely, he registered Lori waffling about a new client, boutique hotel chain or some such. 

“So…” she drawled, finally getting to the point. “I’ll be in San Diego.”

The electricity ran down his spine. “Is that right?” 

“Usually I stay at the Marriott.”

“The Marriott’s nice. Kinda crowded this time of year. It’s still convention season. Did you get a booking?”

“Sure. Sixth floor. Pool view.”

“Nice.” 

He finished parking. Rolling down the window, he located Connor slouched on a low wall in the shade of a fig tree. Playing with his phone he looked happy enough. Adam tooted the horn and Connor meandered towards the car, thumbs busy on the touch screen, like he hadn’t just said goodbye to Jude a few minutes earlier. Adam checked the time— _ah_ —he’d been waiting a while. Adam felt a twang of guilt and a rush of exasperated affection in the same moment. Oblivious to the scorching midday heat, damp around the hairline, dark patches staining the pits of the brand new shirt, Connor smirked at his phone screen: a teenager in the full flush of first love. 

Lori’s gentle breathing down the phone calmed him. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “Gotta hang up now.”

“You’ve got my number.” He wanted to offer a heartfelt thank you, but there was no time. 

“I’ll call you,” he said, reluctant to be the first to put down the phone. 

“You’d better.”

“I promise.” 

Approaching the passenger side door, Connor unglued his eyes from the screen, raised questioning eyebrows— _you took your time._ Briskly, Adam clicked the central locking, pantomimed the universal sign language for _feel free to walk._ Connor’s fingertips lunged for the door handle, his tongue lolled. He was a parched explorer, the car an air-conditioned harbor. 

Grinning, Adam released the doors; Connor returned the smile. Enjoying the moment, Adam tuned in to Lori’s breathing again. He had the sensation of a line tethering him fore and aft. “Bye for now,” he said.

 

“Good luck, Adam. Take care.”

 


End file.
